


Strut on a Line, its Discord and Rhyme

by xiaq



Series: The Adventures of Mage Kid and Wolf Nerd [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Bad Puns, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mage Stiles Stilinski, Nerd Derek, Not Canon Compliant, Pining, Scott and Stiles are Brothers, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Teenagers, awkward teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-02-19 21:16:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 61,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2403131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xiaq/pseuds/xiaq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Carry me,” Stiles says.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“But I’m injured.”</p><p>“You have a rash,” Derek says. “On your arm. Your feet work just fine.”</p><p>“Please?”</p><p>“No. You weigh almost as much as I do. <em>And</em> you ate a pound of chicken at lunch.”</p><p>"Well, yeah, but I pooped like an hour ago, so.”</p><p>“You’re disgusting.”</p><p>“Don’t play, you love me.”</p><p><em>I do</em>, Derek thinks, relatively horrified. <em>I really do</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sometimes Stiles Stilinski forgets how strange his life is. Usually this happens in the mornings, when he’s just woken up and is trying to remember how feet work and if the t-shirt on his lamp is clean or dirty. Then he stumbles downstairs and there’s a werewolf singing Shakira in his kitchen, and, yeah, that’s about when he remembers.

On this particular morning, the werewolf in question is wearing a pink apron over his jeans, no shirt, using a spatula as a microphone.

“Morning!” said werewolf exclaims brightly.

“Scott,” Stiles says. “What are you doing?”

“Making breakfast!” his brother answers, as if this is a completely sensible answer.Scott gestures toward the frying pan in front of him with the spatula, looking pleased with himself. “It’s almost ready.”

Stiles leans against the cook top, considering the mess of partially burned eggs in the skillet, and wrinkles his nose.

“No thanks. And since when do we have anything other than cereal for breakfast?”

Scott turns off the stove eye, giving the action far more concentration than it deserves.

“Mom always cooked for our first days at school,” he says.

They both go uncomfortably quiet and Stiles moves to open the refrigerator.

“I don’t have time to eat anyway,” he says. “The bus will be here in like two minutes.”

Scott crosses his arms, giving him a swift appraisal. “Please tell me that’s not what you’re wearing.”

Stiles tugs at the hem of his plaid shirt, considering the torn jeans underneath it.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

Scott glares at Stiles’ neon green track shoes as if they have personally offended him.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you kind of look like a pubescent hobo.”

“Perfect, that’s what I was going for. Why is there nothing but eggs in the refrigerator?” Stiles pulls open a few cabinets at random.“Oh my god, Scott, did you forget to buy groceries _again_? What am I supposed to bring for lunch?”

“What? No. Look.” Scott pushes a paper bag into his hands. “I already packed your lunch.”

Stiles unrolls the top and peers inside. “A mountain dew and a roll of ritz crackers?”

“Alright. I forgot to buy groceries again, but I promise I’ll do it tonight and—hey, I remembered to write you a note! So I get like, half credit, right? ‘A’ for effort?”

“Your note says ‘don’t screw up or I’ll kill you.’”

“But I put a smiley face on it,” he says, pointing over Stiles’ shoulder. “See?”

“Uh-huh. Give me some cash, I’ll buy something from the cafeteria.”

Scott sighs and digs a few bills from his pocket. “Okay. Cool. Just make sure it’s, um. Healthy?”

Stiles looks at the crackers and soda in his bag, then raises an eyebrow. “You’re really bad at this.”

Scott sags against the counter like a puppet with its strings cut. He rubs the heel of one hand against his forehead, eyes closed. “I know. God. I know. I’m sorry. I’m trying.”

“Hey, no—I didn’t. You’re doing fine. It’s fine.”

They stare at each other awkwardly for a moment before Scott moves forward, dragging his palms down the sides of Stiles neck; pressing his cheek to the top of his head.

“Love you,” he mutters.

“Love you too. I’ll see you tonight. Try to get your furry ass to the grocery store by then.”

“Try to keep your puny human one out of trouble.”

“No guarantees.”

Stiles pushes away from his brother, grabbing his backpack and heading for the stairs.

“Make wise choices!” Scott shouts after him.

***

Stiles does not make wise choices.

Well, he does, sort of. It’s not like he has any regrets. But considering it’s third period on the first day of school and he’s sitting outside the principals office with an icepack against his jaw and blood drying on his chin, he gets the feeling Scott is not going to be very pleased.

He glances sideways at the boy two chairs down who has been studiously ignoring him for the last several minutes. He’s kind of the definition of awkward, all skinny limbs and big ears and eyebrows he hasn’t grown into yet. He’s got tan skin and black hair and his too-big hands, rubbing anxiously at the knees of his jeans, occasionally pause to push the nose of his glasses back into place. Stiles moves the ice pack so he can speak.

“Hey. Are you okay?”

The other boy looks at him like he’s a crazy person. “I’m fine.” And then, as an afterthought. “You’re bleeding.”

Stiles shrugs, probing the split in his lip with his tongue. “No big. I’m Stiles, by the way.”

The boy says nothing.

“That’s usually the part where you tell me your name,” Stiles prompts.

“Derek,” he responds, looking confused. “Derek Hale.”

Derek has dimples and seriously endearing bunny teeth.

“So where are you from, Derek?”

Derek pulls at a tear in the knee of his jeans, looking uncertain. “Colorado.”

“Cool.”

Derek stares at Stiles for a moment, eyebrows furrowed, and takes a breath, as if preparing himself to speak. He doesn’t get a chance, however, as that is the moment Scott comes jogging around the corner.

Stiles winces as he watches Scott’s nose flare, as his eyes move between him and Derek.

“Of course,” his brother groans. “Of course you pick a fight with a werewolf on your first day of school. Holy shit, child protective services is going to take you faster than—“

“What? Scott—no, I didn’t—“

“I swear to god, I’m grounding you for a month. I don't know how to enforce that, exactly, but it's happening."

“Scott would you _listen_ —“

“Pardon me?”

They both turn their attention to the massive red-headed man approaching from the opposite side of the hallway.He looks like the definition of Irish. His skin is choked with freckles, he’s wearing more plaid than the Brawny man, and his expression is somewhat harried.

“Hey. Hi,” Scott moves forward, extending a hand to shake. “Are you the father? Look, I’m really sorry. I’m Stiles’ uh—well I’m his brother, but I’m also sort of his parent now—guardian? Guardian, I guess. Scott. My name is Scott. Stilinski.”

“Padraig Hale,” the other man responds, accepting Scott’s hand. Their eyes meet and for single tense moment, Stiles is worried. Scott drops his gaze nearly immediately though, and the two separate without incident.

“Nice to meet you,” Padraig continues, “I wasn’t aware there were any other wolves at the high school.” His words are lightly accented and oddly formal.

“Oh. There’s not. I graduated last year, so. And Stiles isn’t a—obviously, but—“

The older man quirks an amused eyebrow. “Do you know what happened?”

“No. No I do not. But I’m assuming it’s Stiles’ fault since your kid looks—“

Pathetic, is the word that immediately springs to Stiles’ mind. Derek’s dad sighs like he’s all too aware of it.

“Anyway,” Scott mutters, “Sorry my kid picked a fight with your kid.”

“He didn’t,” Derek says softly.

“What?”

They all look expectantly at the boy but he doesn’t seem interested in providing any additional information.

 “I didn’t get in a fight with Derek,” Stiles offers, “It was Mark.”

“Mark?” Scott says, “Who’s Mark?”

“A grade-A asshole,” he mutters as the principal’s door opens.

They all turn their attention to the man immediately inside the office, who is clearly in the middle of rant.

“Letting that little freak beat my kid up—“ the man is shouting. He basically looks like an older version of Mark, and he’s got his hand of Mark’s shoulder so Stiles guesses he’s the boy’s father.

He and Derek both stand as the principal, looking particularly vexed, gestures them forward. Stiles is gratified to see that one of Mark’s eyes is already swollen shut and his nose is definitely crooked.

“I expect there to be serious consequences,” Mark’s dad is saying as the group from the hall files inside. “Look what that goddamn animal did to my son’s face!”

“Uh, yeah, no,” Stiles says. “That wasn’t Derek. That was me.”

The man’s tirade is somewhat derailed by that information. “I—what?”

“I’m the one that broke Mark’s nose,” Stiles repeats. “Derek wasn’t involved. Like, at all. And douchecanoe over there started it,” he says, gesturing to Mark. “So.”

Scott makes a choking noise.

Derek’s dad is looking at Stiles with raised eyebrows.

Derek mouths, “douchecanoe?”

“You’re telling me this _little boy_ did all of that to you?” Mark’s father says, looking aghast at his son.

“Whoa now,” Stiles says. “I’m actually like, average height for my age-group, alright? And I know the shaved head thing makes me look younger than I am but that wasn’t exactly by choice. There was a fire, okay? A spaghetti fire. Scott’s fault. Not mine.”

“Oh my god,” Scott says, “are you _trying_ to get CPS called on me?”

Derek’s dad coughs into his hand.

Derek mouths “spaghetti fire?”

“Mr. Stilinski,” the principal says, looking more exasperated by the second, “Are you saying the altercation that took place was strictly between you and Mark?”

“Yeah. I mean, Derek was involved at first but he wasn’t a part of the fighting.”

The principal turns his attention to the boys. “Derek, did you ever physically touch Mark?”

“No,” he says, sounding both furious and ashamed. “I just stood there.”

“Probably because he knew that if he so much as sneezed on Mark the police could haul him off to juvie or force him into reservation detention,” Stiles says, crossing his arms. “I mean. You realize that the Human Protection Act basically means that he can’t defend himself like, _at all_ , right?”

“Mr. _Stilinski_ ,” the principal says in a way that means “shut up.”

Stiles falls silent with a scowl.

“Thank you.”

The woman studies the two boys for a moment. “Mark, did Derek at any point physically involve himself in the altercation?”

Mark looks somewhat torn for a moment.

“Don’t even think about lying,” Stiles mutters, “there were over thirty witnesses. You got your ass handed to you. Own it.”

Derek’s dad unsuccessfully suppresses a laugh.

“No.” Mark says finally. “Stiles was the only one that hit me.”

All of the adults shift their attention to Derek, as the principal is clearly debating whether or not this is true. It helps that Derek is doing a pretty excellent impression of a kicked puppy. Which, Stiles doesn’t know if that’s a politically correct comparison to make, all things considered, but it’s accurate anyway.

“Alright, perhaps you could tell me what prompted the incident in the hallway?” The principal asks, her eyes once more on Stiles.

“Well, Mark was talking all kinds of crap to Derek and Derek couldn’t do anything about it because, hey, unfair legislation, but _I_ _could_ do something about it. So I did.”

“Are you saying you threw the first punch, Mr. Stilinski?”

“Yup.” He pops the “p,” which causes the split in his lip to start bleeding again.

“Mark,” the principal says, “were you antagonizing Derek?”

“No!” His voice hitches in an unattractive whine. “I was just _standing_ there.”

“Hey,” Stiles says, “ _witnesses_ , assface, I have them.”

Derek’s father moves forward slightly as he addresses, not the principal, but Stiles.

“May I ask the nature of the young man’s antagonism?”

“It was, oh, it was such crap. Like, he called him a freak and an animal and said he should have been euthanized at birth and then he was like, offering to kill Derek himself to ‘fix the mistake’ or whatever, and it’s not like Derek could fight back either because of that stupid HPA shit.It’s totally unfair.”

“Language,” Scott mutters, as if he wasn’t the one that taught Stiles to swear when he was ten.

“Look. I couldn’t just stand there and do nothing. Mark had him up against the lockers and was just—god, it was terrible the stuff he was saying.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Padraig says, addressing the principal now, “but it is my understanding that hate speech against a minority human-identifying species is an offense punishable by expulsion within the public school system.”

“So is hitting another student,” Mark’s father says sharply.

Padraig gives the man a look that makes Stiles shiver. “Considering neither of these children would benefit from such an upheaval, perhaps a few days suspension would be suffice punishment for both of them.”

The principal is nodding but Mark’s father is clearly not interested in compromising.

“I’m sorry,” he says to Padraig, not sounding the least bit apologetic, “but I don’t think I got your name, _sir_.” The emphasis is mocking and Stiles fights the impulse to kick the leering man in the shin. It’s clear Mark’s prejudices are learned behavior.

Derek’s father smiles and it’s just a shade too sharp to be human. “Padraig Hale, second son of Eoin Walsh, Alpha of Ireland.” He does not offer Mark’s father a handshake.

“Holy crap,” Stiles says. “You’re like _royalty_.”

He turns his attention to Derek, “Which makes you like a prince right? Oh my god.” He spins back to face Mark gleefully. “You threatened to kill _Werewolf royalty_. You are _so_ dead.”

Mark and his father have both paled considerably. Neither of them seems to have anything more to add to the conversation.

“I believe three days suspension for each student would be appropriate,” The principal says quickly. “Is that amenable to everyone?”

Apparently it is.

A few minutes later Stiles finds himself in the hallway with three werewolves and a grin on his aching face.

“That,” he says to Padraig, using the back of his hand to wipe the fresh welling of blood from his lip, “was so cool. You were totally badass.”

Derek’s father tugs a handkerchief from his pocket, because _of course_ , of course he has a handkerchief, and tips Stiles face to the light.

“I could say the same of you, little one.” He responds solemnly, hands gentle as they clean his mangled mouth. “Thank you for protecting my son when he could not protect himself.”

Padraig meets Stiles’ eyes, and then purposely drops his gaze.

Scott breathes out sharply at the blatant act of submission.

“Uh. Thanks? I mean, it’s not a big deal I just—I know Scott had to deal with stuff like that and I wish someone had stuck up for him, you know?”

Derek’s father steps back, returning the bloodied cloth to his pocket. “Indeed. If you don’t mind I would like to speak with your brother for a moment. Derek, see if you can’t find another ice pack for Stiles’ face.”

Stiles glances at Derek, pushing at his glasses, looking more rabbit than wolf, and waves off the request.

“I’m fine. You guys talk. We’ll sit.”

He slumps down against the nearest locker and pats the spot of linoleum beside his with an encouraging smile.

Derek joins his with obvious misgiving and they watch as Scott and Padraig move further down the hall.

“So you and your dad are here alone? Where’s your mom?” Stiles asks after a bit of uncomfortable silence.

“Gone,” Derek says in a way that makes Stiles’ chest hurt.

Stiles nods to the adults with a conspiratorial elbow-nudge. “I figured. I think they’re bonding over the whole single parent thing. Possibly also the werewolf thing. We don’t know any other wolves living off-reservation.”

“You’re not,” Derek says and Stiles makes a face.

“What?”

“You’re not a wolf.”

“Uh. Yeah. I know?”

“I mean. Your brother is.”

“I’m also aware of that, yes.”

“Would you stop— _How?_ How are you human? Lycanthropy is dominant. It’s—science. The gene should have passed to you if your parents were—“

“Uh, pretty sure it’s magic, dude, not science. And Scott isn’t my biological brother. I was adopted.”

Derek’s eyebrows make a valiant attempt at touching his hairline. “Your pack adopted a human child?”

“Yup.”

“Why?”

“Beats me. I’d say ask them but, hey, they’re dead, so.”

Derek looks suddenly and intensely uncomfortable. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…“

“S’okay. Forget it.” Stiles licks a new line of blood forming on his lip and sighs.

“So if you guysare like, Irish royalty or whatever, what the hell are you doing in Beacon Hills, California?”

“My father married into my mother’s pack in Colorado. But we’ve—the reservation has had difficulties with the fae recently.”

“So?”

“I was kidnapped and held hostage for nearly a month by a Mage who had allied himself with a group of lesser demons. It was…unpleasant.”

Stiles lets out a low whistle. “Well that sucks. Still doesn’t answer my question though.”

Derek worries the freyed edge of the hole over his knee. Stiles notices with academic interest that his fingernails are torn down to the quick.

“I was…damaged…by the experience,” Derek says finally. “My father suggested we leave the state for a while to work through my post traumatic issues. There’s a nature preserve here owned by extended family. I’d never spent any real amount of time around humans and thought it might be educational.” He lets out a short bark of self-deprecating laughter. “I’m finding I might prefer demonic company.”

Stiles snorts. “Yeah? Demons you can handle but jerk-face teenagers you’re afraid of?”

He expects Derek to smile but he doesn’t.

“Demons are easy. They’re hateful and malicious and don’t make any secret about their intentions. You know they’re monsters from the start. Humans are harder.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because, sometimes they pretend to be your friend first.”

Stiles studies Derek’s hunched form, the way the knobs of his spine press hard against the skin of his bowed neck in the vulnerable space between his tshirt and the buzzed fringe of his hair. His glasses are sliding down his nose again and Stiles thinks that, for a werewolf, Derek looks awfully fragile.

“That’s deep, dude. But, hey, _all_ humans don’t suck. _I’m_ pretty cool, right?”

“Yes,” he agrees solemnly, and then despite it’s heavily belated arrival: “Thank you.”

“Right. So, I’m starving.” Stiles nods toward the adults, still talking further down the hall. “You wanna see if they’ll move their blossoming bromance to the Hamburger Hut across the street?”

Derek nudges his glasses with the knuckles of one hand, looking somewhat perturbed as he considers both Stiles and the question he has posed. “Okay,” Derek says finally. “I like hamburgers.”


	2. Chapter 2

Since Stiles is suspended for three days, Scott can’t take off work on such short notice, and leaving a recently orphaned fifteen year old home alone would probably be frowned upon by the social worker frequenting the Stilinski household, Padraig offers to watch Stiles for the remainder of the week.

“No way,” Scott says, thumbing a swath of mustard from his chin. “You totally do not have to do that.”

“I work from home,” Padraig says, “it would be no inconvenience. And I’m currently spending more time remodeling than anything else. I would be happy for some additional labor.”

“Labor, huh? Well I guess that would be okay. I feel like I’m supposed to punish Stiles for getting suspended but at the same time I kinda just want to hug him and say ‘go you,’ you know? Maybe that’s a good compromise. What are you working on?”

“At the moment I’m retiling the downstairs bathroom, after that, painting. We’ve chosen colors for the kitchen and living area, but nothing else. Perhaps he can assist us with that as well.”

Stiles leans over the back of the booth Scott is sitting in. “I’m down with that. I like painting.” He mimes brush strokes with the French fry in in his hand. “And I’m great with colors. Mauve is the new black and all that.”

Scott pushes Stiles back onto his side of the partition where he’s been sitting in his own booth across from Derek.

“You don’t even know what mauve is,” Scott says.

“Purple,” Stiles says around a mouthful of hamburger. “It’s like a pale purple.”

Derek continues to look at Stiles the way their biology teacher looks at slides of bacteria under her microscope. Stiles continues to try and engage Derek in a game of footsie under the table. So far he hasn’t been met with much success but they’ve only just gotten their food and even though tenacity isn’t his middle name it probably should be.

By the end of the meal the adults have settled on a time for Scott to drop Stiles off at the Hale’s house the following day and Stiles’ left ankle is caught between Derek’s crossed calves. Derek is smiling at the remains of his chocolate sundae and Stiles is feeling very pleased with himself as Scott stands and says they need to head home.

Derek releases Stiles’ captured foot and he slides out of the booth with a grin.

“See you tomorrow,” Stiles says, saluting.

Derek studies Stiles for a moment with what is becoming a standard amount of bewilderment, and then sighs.

“Don’t forget to ice your face,” he says finally.

“I dunno.” Stiles studies his reflection in the back of a spoon. “I think the cage-fighter look is good on me. Makes me seem badass, right? What do you think?”

“I think you have head trauma.”

“Ouch. Easy on the insults there, Fido. Any brain damage acquired is from protecting _your_ furry honor.”

There’s an uncomfortable pause in which the werewolves reactions vary from amused (Padraig) to resigned (Scott) to continued bafflement (Derek).

“Don’t look at me like that,” Stiles says, poking the boy with his spoon. “I punched a jerk for you. You shared your french-fries with me. We’re _there_ , okay? We have reached the point in our relationship where I can make dog jokes.”

“Can I make human jokes?” Derek asks hesitantly.

“Oh god,” Scott mutters, steering Stiles toward the door. “Don’t encourage him.”

The following morning, Scott drives Stiles down the two-mile dirt road past the rusted gate of the Beacon Hills Nature Preserve to the Hale’s property. The house is built in the cup of land between one hill and the next, tucked between a small cornfield and a catfish pond that has nearly dried up. The dock at the pond is a hoary grey-white, tall and out of place against the red of dry earth.

Scott parks in front of the house, a moderately-sized wooden structure with a wraparound porch and a peaked attic. Stiles notices movement in the attic window and by the time they reach the steps Derek is opening the door. He’s wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a t-shirt that looks big enough to be Padraig’s. The collar is stretched, hanging down over one shoulder, and Stiles is suddenly hit by an irrational surge of fondness for this rumpled morning creature squinting against the rising sun. Derek is looking at stiles with a strange sort of hopefulness that makes Stiles want to hug him.

“You’re early,” Derek says, voice sleep-rough.

“And you’re late for school,” Stiles answers.

“Not going,” he responds, stepping back so they can come inside.

“Morning,” Padraig calls from the kitchen. He’s flipping pancakes on a griddle and waves at them with the spatula.

“Derek’s come down with a sudden case of solidarity so it looks like we’ll all be working on painting today,” Padraig says.

Stiles grins, climbing onto a stool by the counter and helping himself to a pancake. “So you’re letting Derek skip school?” he asks. “That’s awesome.”

Padraig shrugs. “You never really learn anything the first week anyway. And Derek was relatively adamant that if _you_ weren’t permitted to go _he_ would not attend either. I choose my battles, and that was certainly not one I felt like fighting. Do you like blueberries?”

Stiles’ smile widens as Derek lets out a strangled, “ _Dad_.”

“I love blueberries,” Stiles says.

Scott laughs. “It looks like you’ve got things well-handled here. Thanks again for keeping an eye on this one.”

“No problem.” The older man pushes a napkin with a stack of pancakes on it toward Scott.

He accepts them happily. “Love you, Stiles. See you at six.”

Stiles waves, a pancake in each hand, as he heads for the door. “Love you too.”

“Make wise choices!”

In the three months that he and Scott have been living alone, Stiles had forgotten how much werewolves _eat_. Padraig and Derek finish a half-dozen pancakes each for breakfast, then polish off the leftovers as a snack after painting for a few hours.He’s still full when they start talking about lunch. Stiles can’t decide if the resultant memories are amusing or too painful to deal with, but when Derek starts side-eyeing him from where he’s rolling paint between the windows Stiles decides it’s probably the latter. Stupid mythical creatures and their annoyingly perceptive senses.

He’s just finished the agonizingly slow process of edging around the molding of the fireplace when Padraig calls for a break, tossing his roller onto the tarp-covered back porch.

“You two rinse everything outside and then come in to eat,” he says.

Completely unsurprisingly, the cleaning of painting implements quickly devolves into a water fight which turns into a relatively short-lived wresting match for the hose. It’s short lived because Derek refuses to actually fight Stiles and Stiles resolves to fix that issue as soon as possible.

“I used to wrestle with my brothers and sisters _all the time_ ,” he says, trying to turn off the spigot with muddy fingers. “I mean, I get it, I’m the squishy pink human, but I’ve been in martial arts since I was like, five, okay? I know how to handle myself.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Derek says quietly, and Stiles can think of no real response to something that is both so honestly sweet and patently infuriating.

He rolls his eyes and goes back inside.

Padraig is already on his second sandwich by the time he deems Stiles and Derek dry enough to join him at the table. Derek adds a disturbing amount of pickles to his plate. Stiles sits on his feet to keep the barstool dry.

“So you’ve got a couple options,” Padraig says, taking a long swallow of tea. “Once you’re done eating, the two of you can finish painting the living room, or you can head out to check the nests. Your choice.”

“Nests?” Stiles asks.

“Dad’s an ornithologist,” Derek says. “There’s three different Long Eared Owl nests in the preserve right now with owlets about to fledge. We’ve been checking them every day because dad wants to get some films made when they start.”

“Fledge?”

“When the babies learn to fly.”

“Oh. Cool.”

Stiles considers Padraig, six foot of muscle and freckles, paint speckles stuck in the scruff on his chin, and grins. Because _of course_ the massive werewolf prince from Ireland is an ornithologist. Of course.

Since the wolves came out ten years before there had been a certain job niche that they fell into. Military. Security. Manual labor. The posterboy for the initial exposure movement was an American Iraqi War Veteran turned firefighter who had shifted in order to rescue a child from a collapsed building. The narrower form of his wolf allowed the man to reach the girl and pull her out seconds before the fire brought the rest of the building down. And then, once clear of the wreckage and in full sight of a half-dozen news vans, he’d shifted back.

Of course, every werewolf in the world knew that had been a carefully crafted occurrence, but it still made for an excellent story.

The pictures were even better.

The front cover of every newspaper the following day was two side-by side photographs. The first was of a smoke-blackened wolf, the flushed arms of a three-year-old girl wrapped around its neck while a fire blazed in the background. The second was taken a few minutes later; a man and child ensconced in orange shock blankets in the back of an ambulance bay. The girl was wrapped around the man’s free arm, one hand holding an oversized oxygen mask to her face, the other resting on the man’s bicep beneath a US Marines tattoo reading _Semper Fidelis_.

So yeah, werewolves and the military are a thing. They are soldiers, police officers, firefighters, and intelligence agents. Protecting and serving and hoping people forget they have all the technical dangers of a Bengal tiger beneath whatever uniform they choose to wear.

Ornithology? Not really top of the list in socially acceptable werewolf occupations.

Stiles finds himself liking Padraig even more because of it.

Padraig is looking at him with a raised eyebrow, “So?” he asks. “Painting or nests?”

Stiles glances at Derek, but it seems he has already resigned himself to the fact that the decision will not be his to make.

“Nests,” Stiles says, grinning. “We definitely want to check the nests.”

The closest nest is a half-mile from the house. The farthest is three miles. Derek drives them on a beat-up four-wheeler down weed-grown fire lanes, stopping when the underbrush becomes too thick to traverse, and they walk the remaining distance.

“So what are these things called again?” Stiles asks, ducking under a branch Derek is holding for him.

“Long Eared Owls.”

“What, as opposed to Short-Eared Owls?”

“Yes.”

Stiles sighs. “Of course there are Short-Eared Owls. So, what’s the difference? Is that a stupid question?”

“Mostly just coloring and wing structure, and the ear-tufts, obviously,” Derek nods toward a pine tree, slowing his pace. “Here’s the first nest.”

Derek climbs a neighboring tree, spends several minutes checking the nest from various viewpoints, and then drops back to the ground beside Stiles.

“They’re all still there. Probably another day or so before they fledge, though.”

At the second nest Stiles climbs with Derek, suppressing embarrassing noises of excitement over the sleeping bundles of feathers.

“They’re so _tiny_!” He whispers loudly and Derek gives him a disapproving look.

“These are the youngest. About three weeks old. Come on.”

The final nest is apparently perched precariously between two trees in the bottom of a gulch that directs spring water to the nearby lake.

“Wait here,” Derek says, nodding to the four-wheeler. “You can only get to this one on four legs.”

“I can keep up,” Stiles says, jogging after him. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”

Derek’s eyebrows take a dive. “No.”

“Please?”

“ _No_.”

Stiles considers pressing it, but Derek is starting to look genuinely worried, as if he’s trying to figure out a way to physically prohibit Stiles from following him without harming Stiles in the process.

“Jeez. Fine. Sorry I got your panties in a twist. I’ll wait here.”

“Don’t presume you have any effect on my underwear.” Derek says lowly, ducking into the cover of trees.

It takes Stiles a moment to realize Derek has made a joke.

“Hey!” He calls after him. “I didn’t know you had a sense of humor!”

“Stop shouting!” Derek yells back.

This is followed by an introspective pause and an annoyed noise.

Stiles reclines on the four-wheeler and grins at the sky.

It’s nearly fifteen minutes before Derek returns, looking rumpled and sweaty. There’s a familiar amount of post-shift feralness lurking in his movements as he pushes back into the clearing and Stiles groans, exaggerating a stretch.

“ _Finally_ , I thought you were never coming back. It took you _forever_.”

“It’s been less than twenty minutes.”

“No. It was forever. I counted.”

Derek doesn’t vocally respond, but his eyebrows speak for his annoyance.

Stiles slings his arms around Derek’s waist as he starts the four-wheeler, nudging his chin into the groove between Derek’s neck and shoulder.

“Don’t play. You think I’m hilarious.”

Derek grunts, but doesn’t try to distance himself as they pick up speed and Stiles decides to count that as agreement.

It takes nearly an hour to get back to the house and in their absence, Padraig has not only finished painting the living room, but is nearly done with the kitchen as well. They sprawl on the floor in front of the oscillating fan meant to dry the walls and Padraig brings them water.

“Hot?” he asks.

“Only _a lot_ ,” Stiles answers, drinking half his cup in a series of greedy swallows.

Derek takes off his glasses, wiping his face with the bottom hem of his shirt.

“Nests are all fine,” he says, “B6 is probably going to fledge tomorrow or the day after.”

“B6?” Stiles yawns.

“The first one we checked.”

Padraig joins them on the floor, running a hand through his paint-flecked hair.

“So, Stiles, what did you think of our owlets?” He asks.

“Oh man,” Stiles says, resting the cold cup against the side of his neck. “I will totally help check nests every day. It was awesome.”

Padraig grins. “Would you say it was….a _hoot_?”

“Dad,” Derek says. “Don’t.”

“Well,” Stiles answers, “it certainly wasn’t… _fowl_.”

Derek makes a pained noise.

Padraig looks gleeful. “It’s nice to find someone who appreciates a good bird pun. Derek doesn’t seem to understand they’re just a _lark_.”

Stiles bounces into a seated position, trying to look serious.

“Would you say he’s… _bittern_?” he asks.

Padraig raises an eyebrow. “Bittern? Really? That one was _ostrich_ of the imagination.”

“ _Owl_ have you know I was quite proud of it.”

“Stop.” Derek says. “Both of you. Please.”

“It was probably worst pun I’ve _feather_ heard.” Padraig continues, suppressing a smile. “I know defeat is hard to _swallow_ , but you should recognize that I am the master of aviary puns from _heron_ out. _Wren_ you’re an ornithologist you _egret_ quite good at these things.”

“Oh, yeah?” Stiles says, looking delighted. “ _Toucan_ play at that game.”

“How is this my life?” Derek asks the ceiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's log: star date whatever.  
> Here's chapter 2! I did warn you there would be puns. For now lets plan on an update either Wednesday or Thursday each week. If that changes, I'll let you know on my Tumblr. Until next time!


	3. Chapter 3

When people ask Derek how his mother died he usually answers, “slowly.” Because it’s one part truth and one part bitterness and he doesn’t particularly like talking about the fact that his favorite person in the world isn’t anymore.

So when Stiles asks and his automatic response _isn’t_ the go-to smart-ass answer, he pauses for a moment of introspection.

They’ve spent the second day of Stile’s suspension pretty similarly to the first. The morning was used for finishing the kitchen and painting the hallway, while the afternoon has, thus far, been spent outside. Padraig is the one checking the nests this time, while Derek and Stiles are in the garden with five-gallon buckets picking vegetables.

Forty-five minutes in Stiles developed a sudden and passionate hatred for okra, and, in an effort to distract him, Derek had suggested they play a game. He had decided upon Twenty Questions and Derek is now regretting all of his choices.

“Dude,” Stiles prompts, “your mom?”

“Aren’t you supposed to ask easier questions first? Like, ‘what’s your favorite color’ or something?” Derek says, stalling.

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Purple.”

“Cool. How did your mom die?”

The audacity wrenches a reluctant laugh out of him. The sound is strange and disused and reminds him of why he hasn’t heard it for so long.

“I—can we not? Talk about that.”

Unexpectedly, Stiles shrugs. “Sure. Can I see your wolf?”

Derek accidentally crushes the tomato in his hand.

“What?”

“I mean, I get that it’s sort of personal and not really a thing that you share with outsiders, but, I’m not really an outsider, right? We’re friends. Bros. Brethren.”

“Bros?” He repeats.

“Yup.”

He has no idea how to respond to that but he’s saved from needing to when Stiles drops a handful of okra into his bucket and frowns at his arm.

“I think I’m getting a rash,” he says, studying the inside of his wrist. “Seriously, Derek, look at this.”

Derek grunts from the row of tomato plants next to him, not looking at all.

“ _Derek.”_

When he finally glances at Stile’s proffered hand he realizes with a rush of guilt that Stiles does, actually, have a rash.

“Oh.”

Derek touches the raised patchwork of bumps with a frown, the fingers of his opposite hand curled around Stiles’ forearm, holding him still. His skin is strangely hot to the touch.

“We better go back. Dad’s got a med kit in the kitchen, I think.”

Derek picks up both their buckets, despite Stiles’ protests that he’s perfectly capable of carrying his back, and leads them toward the house.

They cut through the cornfield, high and nearly ready for harvesting, and they’re almost to the house when he glances behind him and Stiles is gone.

“Perfect,” he mutters, and then louder, “Stiles?”

There’s no answer. He raises his voice further, “STILES?”

“DEREK!”

The volume of the response is something of a shock to him and he pushes toward Stiles’ voice, certain that something terrible has happened.

“STILES?!”

“DEREK!”

He nearly trips over Stiles, where he’s kneeling on the ground, and Derek stumbles into a crouch, trying to turn Stiles around, hands on narrow shoulders, checking the other boy for damage.

“What? What happened? Are you alright?”

“Shhh,” Stiles says, making absolutely no sense. “You’ll scare him.”

Derek’s hands move from Stile’s shoulders to the sides of his face, tilting it first one way, then the other. “Scare who? And you’ve just been screaming, I don’t see how I’d manage to scare whatever it is if you haven’t alr—holy _hell_ what is _that_?”

Derek abruptly lets go, flailing slightly, because cupped in the curve of Stiles’ elbow is a good-sized tarantula. And he’s smiling at it.

_Smiling._

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Stiles whispers.

“It’s a tarantula,” Derek answers, “Stiles you’ve got a tarantula on your arm.”

“Aphonopelma hentzi,” he corrects.

“Stiles. Get the tarantula off your arm.”

“Aphonopelma hentzi are one of the most docile species of arachnid in the US.” Stiles answers, tone somehow conveying both adoration and annoyance. “She’s harmless.”

“She?”

“Yes. I checked.”

“You checked. Of course you checked. How do you even—no. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

Stiles lifts his arm, turning his palm up as the furry spider moves from the hollow of his elbow to his wrist.

“I think I’ll call her Penelope.”

“Penelope. No. No you won’t call it Penelope because naming it means that you’re going to _keep_ it and we are definitely not taking that _thing_ home with us.”

“Penelope,” Stiles corrects him, “her name is Penelope.”

“No it is _not.”_

Derek watches with something akin to horror as Stiles brings his palm, now cupping the tarantula, to his face, peering at the creature with open delight.

Two furred legs dab at his nose before a third joins them and Derek stands up abruptly.

“Oh my god. Please don’t let it crawl on your face. Stiles. Shit.”

“Her name is Penelope,” he repeats.

One of Penelope’s legs get’s caught in the seam of his lips when he speaks.

“Fine. Great. Please don’t let Penelope crawl on your face. I am so serious. You have no idea.”

Stiles sighs, moving his hand away, and allows the arachnid to move from one open palm to the other.

“So I can keep her then?”

“NO.”

“Derek.”

“No.”

“Please?”

Derek considers Stiles’ enraptured expression, then the creature now making it’s way up his opposite arm and shudders.

“I don’t know why we’re even arguing about this. You’re bringing it anyway, regardless of what I say, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Stiles agrees, eyes still on Penelope.

“Why?” Derek asks no one in particular, “what did I do to deserve this?”

Penelope is relocated to a shoebox when they get to the house, and after a somewhat heated argument; the shoebox is left on the porch.

“But what if she gets too hot?”

“She’s a _tarantula_ , Stiles. She _lives outside_. Now come on, your arm is starting to look worse.”

Which is actually sort of terrifying because Derek’s never really been in a situation before where trifling wounds didn’t just…heal.

He finds the medkit and opens it, feeling exceptionally lost.

Stiles snorts and turns it toward him. “Relax, Whitefang, I can tell you’ve probably never dealt with us human folk and our easily irritated flesh. All I need is a little Benadryl ointment. No reason to look all whimpery.”

He watches, not looking at all _whimpery_ , (is that even a word?) as Stiles daubs some white cream onto his wrist and then tapes a piece of gauze over it.

“Memo,” Stiles says, putting the kit back under the sink. “Get some Batman Band-Aids. The waterproof tattoo kind. Those are the best.”

“Memo,” Derek answers, “I don’t have a need for Band-Aids.”

“I do though. And if I’m hanging out here, which I will be, I’ll probably be getting hurt. Collecting minor injuries is kind of a hobby of mine.”

That causes Derek to pause.

Stiles doesn’t seem to notice, opening the refrigerator and pulling out the lemonade they’d made to go with lunch.

“Are you—“ Derek stops and tries again. “You’ll want to come back? After your suspension ends?”

Stiles stills, giving Derek a one-eyebrow-up one-eyebrow-down look. “Um. Yeah? What, you think once we go back to school I’m gunna pretend you don’t exist or something? Find other people to hang out with?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

It’s meant to sound flippant but it comes out a little bit raw and lot too honest and he turns to get a cup out of the cabinet so he doesn’t have to look at Stiles anymore.

Stiles pours him a glass of lemonade with an unreadable expression.

“I’ve decided something,” Stiles says, sitting down in front of the fan.

“Oh?”

“You’re going to be my best friend now. Don’t try and fight it. It’s done.”

“We’ve known each other for two days,” Derek points out.

“So? I can predict the future, okay. Our friendship will be legendary. It’s in the stars. I’ve seen visions of its epic-ness. ”

“Really?”

“No. Not at all. But I _can_ feel it. Right here,” Stiles taps his sternum. “Come sit down. Enjoy this beautiful period of unproductive-ness before your dad gets back and ruins it.”

“I heard that!” Padraig calls from the back porch.

Padraig kicks off his boots, joining them on the kitchen floor, and snags Derek’s half-empty glass. He sniffs over the rim and gives Stiles an assessing look.

“Benadryl?” He asks.

“Okra,” he answers, holding up his arm.

“Ah.”

Any further conversation is thwarted by the ringing of Padraig’s phone. He fishes it out of his pocket while emptying Derek’s glass.

“Hale speaking.”

His laughing expression fades as he listens to whoever is on the other line.

“Where?—No. Do they know what—? Right. No, you’re not going alone, you’re barely of age. I’m coming with you.”

The voice on the other line squawks something in reply and Derek realizes the voice is Scott.

“Calm down. Derek and Stiles will be fine here. I’ll meet you at the school in twenty minutes.”

He hangs up, pushing himself to his feet, and drops the empty cup in the sink.

“There was a body found in the pool at the high school. It’s been labeled a non-human instigated homicide. The Police Department wants Scott to try and track whoever, or whatever, was responsible.”

“What?” Stiles stands abruptly. “He just got out of the academy, though. He’s a _rookie_. They won’t even let him ride in a car alone.”

“He’s also the only one in town capable of tracking whatever it was that killed that child. Apart from me, of course. Which is why I’ve volunteered my services. You two stay here.Don’t leave the house. I’ll check in occasionally to keep you updated.”

He grabs boots from the porch and keys from the living room table, giving them another glance.

“Also, for god’s sake, go take baths. You’re getting dirt all over the floor.”

They watch as he jogs down the hall, door slamming behind him, and listen as the sound of his truck fades with distance. Derek realizes Stiles is clutching the cup in his hand with several times the force required, and nudges him, gently; just enough force to shift him to one side.

“Hey. They’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

Stiles falls onto the couch with a scowl. “I’m not worried.”

“Right. Well,” Derek nods toward the stairs, “you want first shower?”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t make any movement and Derek raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”

Stiles deposits his cup on the end table, reaching up toward him with a groan.

“Carry me.”

“No.”

“But I’m injured,” Stiles says, brandishing his gauze-wrapped wrist.

“You have a rash. On your arm. Your feet work just fine.”

“Please?”

“No. You weigh almost as much as I do. And you ate a pound of chicken at lunch.”

"Well, yeah, but I pooped like an hour ago, so.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Don’t play,” Stiles says, “You love me.”

 _I do_ , Derek thinks, relatively horrified, _I really do_.

Stiles is still grinning at him and Derek admits defeat, because giving Stiles a piggy back ride up the stairs is easier than thinking about the fact that after two days he’s at least a little bit in love with an abrasive fifteen year old boy who makes too many puns and names tarantulas “Penelope.”

Stiles shrieks with delight when Derek dumps him on the bathroom floor and just sprawls there, unconcerned, grinning.

“Thanks, Seabiscuit.” Stiles says.

“Take a shower, Stiles,” Derek says, backing out the door.

“High—Ho Silver!” He yells.

They make scrambled eggs and spaghetti for dinner because neither of them know how to make anything else. They split a 29-ounce can of peaches for desert, their forks clashing as makeshift weapons over the last slice, and catch grasshoppers to feed Penelope as the sun sets. They sneak surreptitious glances at Derek’s cell phone every few minutes.

Padraig finally calls just past 9 pm when Derek is curled on the sofa, reading a book, and Stiles is hanging over the back of the couch, upside-down, bemoaning their lack of a television.

“We tracked it to the lake,” Derek’s dad says, sounding exhausted and tinny over the speakerphone.

“It?” Derek asks.

“Kelpie,” Padraig says in the same moment that Scott yells in the background “Shit—don’t—“

Stiles rolls off the couch and onto the floor with a thump.

“Shit,” Scott repeats, louder this time. It sounds like he’s taken the phone from Padraig. “Did Stiles hear that?”

“Uh. Yeah.” Derek answers.

“Stiles,” Scott says urgently, “it wasn’t— it’s a different one, okay?”

Derek watches as Stiles’ face blanks, as he turns sharply and pushes into the hallway bathroom. He closes the door carefully, quietly, behind him, which somehow makes things worse.

“He’s just locked himself in the backroom,” Derek informs them.

“Fantastic.” Scott sounds even more exhausted than Derek’s father.

There’s a soft crackle of movement and then Padraig is speaking again.

“Keep an eye on Stiles. See if you two can get some sleep. They need us here for at least another few hours.”

“Okay.”

“Have you eaten dinner?”

“Yeah, pasta and eggs. And peaches.”

“That’s...an interesting combination.”

Derek hears someone yelling the background and Padraig sighs. “I’ve got to go. Make the air mattress up for Stiles. I’m not going to force you to share your room, but at least put it in the loft so you can keep an ear out for him. Spare pillows and sheets are in the—“

“Hall closet, I know, Dad.”

“Right. I’ll call when we’re heading back.”

Stiles pulls open the bathroom door, looking furious. “Tell Scott I love him.”

Derek resists the urge to step farther away from him.

“Stiles says he loves Scott.”

Derek can hear the man laugh, sort of brokenly, in the background. “Tell him I love him too.”

Stiles shuts the door again without responding, this time with more force.

Derek hangs up and goes to find the air mattress.

The upstairs of the house is actually a renovated attic space. Bathroom, bedroom, and postage-stamp sized loft with a desk and a pile of boxes they’ve yet to unpack. Derek makes the best nest of a bed that he can in the limited space and then digs out his secret stash or oreos and goes downstairs to coax Stiles out of the bathroom.

“I’ve got cookies,” he says, knocking on the door.

Completely unsurprisingly, Stiles opens it a few seconds later, taking the bag from him.

“No you don’t,” he answers.

Derek figures it’s worth it.

After locking the doors, Derek checks his phone one more time and heads for his bedroom. Stiles is balled up on the far edge of the air mattress, where the slanted wall of the roof eve meets floor. Everything about him is golden-brown: his ruffled hair and mole-spotted skin, the sun-freckles on his shoulders, his eyes. He’s a stark contrast to the turquoise blanket, made starker by the brightness of the hallway light and the shadow of the roof angle.

The eyes in question watch him as he moves to the bathroom to brush his teeth. When Derek goes to sleep he turns off the light and, after a fierce internal debate, leaves his bedroom door cracked open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's log, stardate, uh, something.  
> Here's Chapter 3! I hope everyone is enjoying things thus far. Next week's chapter will probably be a day or two early because of work shenanigans, and uploading fanfic backstage at a fashion show is probably not recommended. As long as I can get it edited in time, early is better than late, I think. Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

The nightmares only happen to Derek once or twice a week now, but naturally they would occur, this particular week, on a night when someone other than his father is there to see the aftermath.

Stiles finds Derek on the laundry room floor at 1am.

He’s sitting in front of the washing machine, arms around his knees, head tipped back against the porthole window. Stiles can see the sheets from Derek's bed oscillating inside, twisted and wet in a cloud of soap suds. Derek is wearing a different pair of pants than the ones he went to sleep in.

Stiles stands in the doorway until Derek notices his presence.

“Stiles,” Derek says, letting his head fall to one side. “Go back to sleep.”

“No.”

Derek closes his eyes. “Please.”

“No.”

Stiles moves to sit beside him, mimicking his position.

Derek’s lips press into a self-deprecating line and after several minutes of silence he says, “Aren’t you going to ask me why I decided to do some midnight laundry?”

Stiles ignores Derek’s hostile tone, glancing from the washing machine to Derek’s new pajama bottoms. “I’d say that’s fairly obvious,” he answers.

“Go _away_.”

Stiles studies him for a moment. “It’s. I mean, I’ve read that it’s normal after a trauma for—“

Derek’s mouth curls; angry, ashamed. His voice is too loud. “Oh. It’s normal. Fantastic. That helps me a whole lot. Thanks.”

“You know, yelling at me because you’re embarrassed isn’t going to fix anything.”

“Goddamn it.” Derek pushes his fingers under his glasses and into his eyes. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, can we just…”

Stiles shifts, closing the space between them, and presses his shoulder with studied force against Derek’s.

“Yeah,” he says.

Derek leans into the pressure, not enough to overbalance Stiles but enough to matter.

“I’m sorry,” Derek repeats.

“Does Padraig know?” Stiles asks.

“Yes. Kind of hard to hide it.”

“Werewolves,” Stiles agrees. “Have you thought about talking to someone about it. Doctor? Therapist?”

He makes a sharp negative noise.

“Why not?”

“It’s embarrassing.”

Stiles sits up, distancing himself enough to face him. “Would you like my help?”

Derek resists the urge to laugh again. “No offense, but I don’t think there’s anything you could do.”

“Dude. I am profoundly intelligent. Do you know what I could do if I set my mind to it?”

“What?”

“All of the things,” Stiles says seriously. “ _All of the things_.”

“Of course. Well, by all means, cure me.”

He doesn’t respond for several seconds.

“Are you making fun of me?” Stiles asks, still smiling, but somehow less confident.

“No,” Derek glances sideways at him, surprised. “No, I wouldn’t.”

Stiles’ expression shifts, just enough to suggest relief, and Derek feels so suddenly and intensely fond in that moment that it winds him.

“I wouldn’t,” he says again, needing Stiles to understand, “You’re my friend, right? Friends don’t make fun of each other.”

“Best friend,” Stiles corrects him. “Bro.”

“Right.”

Derek’s cell phone, sitting on top of the dryer, buzzes with a text message, and Stiles reaches up to catch it before it can vibrate off the edge.

“They’re finally finishing up,” he reads. “Your dad says they’re leaving the lake but have to go by the precinct first. Estimating another hour or so before they can head back.”

“So they’ll be home by dawn then.”

“Pretty much.”

Stiles tosses the phone into Derek’s lap, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes.

“I feel like a zombie.” Stiles nods toward the ceiling. “Wanna crash in the loft with me?”

“You just found out I have nightmares bad enough to make me wet the bed and you’re offering to sleep next to me?”

“I was literally raised by wolves,” Stiles reminds him. “A little pee amongst bros is really not a big deal. Come on,” he stands, offering him a hand up. “You go upstairs. Get comfy. I want to check on Penelope.”

“She stays on the porch,” Derek says.

“I know.”

“And don’t forget to lock the door when you come back in.”

“Wow. Okay. I got it, _dad_. Jeez.”

Stiles rolls his eyes so hard his head tilts and Derek leaves him to check on the creepy giant spider.

In the loft, he takes off his glasses and settles on the side of the mattress facing the bathroom since it seems Stiles prefers the wall-edge. The blankets smell like Stiles. Like allspice and leaves and a little bit like Derek’s shower gel. It doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would.

“Penelope’s still alive,” Stiles says, pulling himself up the last few stairs by the railing. “She says hello.”

“I somehow doubt that.”

“Lighten up, grumpyface.”

He climbs over Derek in a sprawl of sharp limbs, at least one knee catching Derek in the stomach, and presses himself into the nook of the wall. Stiles pulls a pillow to his chest and wiggles for a moment, yawning.Derek doesn’t know if he’s supposed to say something so he doesn’t, watching as the other boy gets comfortable, and, eventually, stops moving.

“You’re a good friend,” Stiles says, surprising Derek back into wakefulness a few minutes later.

Derek squints. “I—what?”

“Earlier. You didn’t ask. You gave me cookies and left me alone. It was good.”

“I didn’t—I mean I was just—“

“Nope,” Stiles says, pushing a pillow at Derek’s face. “No arguing. You’re a good friend. I can tell. Like,” he yawns, voice scratchy with sleep. “I bet you’re the kind of person who, if I have just declared the floor is made of hot lava, will totally pretend the floor is made of hot lava. Even if you’re grumpy about it. Which is cool, because there are some people who _won’t_ act like the floor is hot lava, even though I have _just said_ that it is.”

Derek has no idea how to respond to that so he settles on. “Go back to sleep.”

“Can’t,” Stiles mutters. “There’s a monster in my bed.”

“How long have you been waiting to use that one?”

“At least twenty minutes. I thought you were never going to give me an opening.”

“Apologies,” Derek says seriously, and Stiles laughs.

“You’re getting better at this.”

“At what?” Derek asks.

“Me.”

Derek shoves the pillow back at his face. “Goodnight, Stiles.”

“Night, Derek.”

Derek wakes a few hours later to a weight on his chest and soft snickering from the stairwell. It takes him longer than it should to orient himself. Stiles is draped mostly on top of him, right leg thrown over his hips, right arm tucked around his head, fingers curled against the pillow. Derek’s face is pressed to the curve of Stiles’ shoulder and he gets distracted by the soft down of hair that peaks in a crest at the nape of Stiles neck. He smells especially like allspice there. Like fall colors and cold air and a warm blanket.

Scott clears his throat and Padraig starts laughing again.

Derek shifts Stiles off of him— gently— and moves to join them, feeling sheepish.

“Hi,” he says.

They both nod toward the kitchen and he follows them downstairs, trying not to sneeze against the sour odor clinging to their mussed clothing.

It occurs to him, somewhat belatedly, that he might be in trouble. Wolves’ version of personal space is essentially non-existent. Pack members, regardless of gender or relation, often sleep in close proximity to each other. He’s only just remembering that human rules are a bit different, and that, despite how strangely comfortable he feels around Stiles, Stiles isn’t pack, either.

“You’re not in trouble,” Padraig says, leaning back against the counter. “Stiles was raised like the rest of us. But I better not find you cuddling with any other humans.”

Derek wrinkles his nose at the idea. “I won’t.”

“Good. Now why is there a tarantula in a box on the porch?”

“Stiles,” Scott answers, before Derek can. “He’s got a sort of creepy obsession with critters most people find disturbing. Word to the wise, if you’re ever in his room, do _not_ open any of the terrariums. Tarantulas are the least of your worries in that menagerie. He’s got snakes with venom that can lay a _wolf_ out.”

Derek decides he doesn’t want to see Stiles’ room anytime soon.

“Is that legal?” Padraig asks, eyebrows raised.

“Not at all,” Scott shudders. “But they can be pretty convenient. My—“ He runs a hand through his hair, looking at the floor. “Our dad’s best friend for years was a Mage. We called her our Aunt. She used all kinds of dangerous animals and insects in her runes. She made darts and bullets and tiny little chemical bombs out of everything from poisonous beetle shells to scorpion venom. When my family adopted Stiles my father asked her to teach Stiles things. Ways to protect himself. Use what means a human could to survive in a world like ours. Just in case.”

“This Mage,” Padraig asks. “Did she die with your pack?”

“Yeah. She was the one that saved Stiles and I. Which was what killed her, actually. She was a fire elemental. Had this massive rune on her back that let her do really crazy stuff. She burnt it out keeping us alive, though. Died the next day from the shock of it.”

“I don’t understand,” Derek says.

Scott glances at Padraig, who shakes his head. “Our pack hasn’t had a Mage for several decades. They’re rare. Secretive. And increasingly hard to trust. He hasn’t been exposed to them.”

Scott shrugs. “Mages are Fae who are trained to use runes. Most don’t, because it’s so dangerous, but because of diluted blood lines Fae these days have little to no magical abilities if they _don’t_ use runes.”

“What exactly are runes?” Derek asks. “I know they look like tattoos, but that can’t be all they are, right?”

“Sort of,” Scott pushes up his sleeves rubbing his thumb against his wrist. “Runes direct Fae magic, and, yeah, usually they’re tattoos, but they’re made with special ink, composed of the Mage’s preference of ingredients. My Aunt, for example, liked venom. Like I said, though, runes are really dangerous. If a Mage pushes to hard, tries to do too much, the rune will burn out, scar over, become useless. It’s a painful process, sometimes even fatal if it’s an especially large rune.”

“And you learned all this from your…Aunt?”

“Yeah. I mean, Stiles knows more about it than I do. He spent the most time with her, apart from my dad.”

“If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to speak to him about that some time. There are several packs in Colorado who are having issues with the fae. He might be able to give us some valuable information.”

“Sure.” Scott yawns, glancing at the clock above the oven.

It’s just past 5 in the morning.

“I guess I’d better head out. You want me to take Stiles and then bring him back or just leave him here?”

“He’s asleep,” Derek says, as if that has some bearing on the decision.

Padraig raises an amused eyebrow. “It _would_ be a shame to wake him up.”

“Alright, well.” Scott shoves his hands in his pockets, looking suddenly very, very young.

Derek keeps forgetting that he’s only eighteen.

“Thanks,” Scott says. “For everything. You didn’t have to help and I—I really appreciate that you did.”

“Go get some sleep, kid.” Padraig says, waving him toward the door. He nods toward the stairs. “You too,” he says to Derek. “I’m going to grab a shower and then it better be completely silent in this house until at least 10am. Understood?”

“Understood.”

Derek switches his sheets to the dryer and then returns to the loft. In his absence, Stiles has starfished out across the air mattress and he carefully pushes him to one side, slotting himself into the empty space. He squirms for a moment, wincing as the mattress squeaks, and definitely does _not_ take an extra deep breath of the Stiles-scented blankets, before falling immediately back to sleep.

The second time Derek wakes up, there’s a weight on his chest again. He opens his eyes to see Stiles sitting on him.

“Morning, rabbitbreath,” he says. “Your dad sent me to get you for breakfast. Or lunch. Brunch? Whatever. It’s food time.”

Derek rolls over, sending Stiles sprawling onto the floor.

“Are those my clothes?” He asks.

Stiles glances at the t-shirt and shorts he’s wearing. “Don’t worry. I didn’t go into your den-space or whatever. Your dad got them for me. Your room is still a human-free zone.”

“Thanks.”

Stiles hands Derek his glasses before he can reach for them.

“Come on, I’m starving.”

Between the three of them they finish a dozen eggs and nearly three pounds of bacon.

Stiles manages to wait until they’re washing dishes to ask about the night before.

“So…” he starts, giving Padraig the side-eye.

“There was a kelpie,” he says, before Stiles can phrase the question. “Young. Alone. It’s been taken care of. If Scott wants to tell you more, that’s up to him.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Were the police…how did the other officers treat Scott?”

Padraig studies Stiles over the soap-covered dish in his hands. He rinses it as he answers.

“They were respectful, for the most part. When they weren’t I pointed out the error in their ways.”

Stiles passes Padraig another plate, worrying his bottom lip against his teeth.

“I don’t—I get the feeling most people aren’t very nice to him there.”

“Perhaps they’ll be nicer now.”

It is silent for several minutes, save the clink of porcelain and the scrape of cutlery against the steel of the sink.

“He was supposed to leave this year,” Stiles says as he pulls the drain.

“Pardon?”

“Scott. He took the Marine’s preparatory tests last August. Studied and trained for months. Just about killed himself, but he placed third out of eight hundred applicants. He had a spot on an all-wolf special-ops team at Camp Lejeune this year.”

“That’s…impressive.”

“Yeah. He should have left last month.” Stiles dries his hands, slowly, rubbing perhaps harder than is necessary at the join of his left wrist. “He couldn’t go because of me. Because there would be no one else to take care of me. And now he’s stuck here.”

Derek glances between his father and Stiles.

“Can’t he defer enrollment?” Derek asks.

“He can, and he did. But that’s only for a year. He can’t bring family on base and if he gives up custody I go into the foster system.He’s stuck.”

“What about emancipation?”Padraig asks.

“Wouldn’t work. I have to prove I’ve got a place to live and a method of providing for myself and at the time the deferment ends I’ll still be fifteen. Three weeks from sixteen, but still.”

Padraig closes the cabinet behind the newly washed plates, looking thoughtful.

“I’ll speak to your brother. I have some connections that may be of assistance.” He opens the silverware drawer, beckoning Derek forward to fill it with the cutlery he’s been drying. “The marines aren’t the only lucrative military option available for our kind, after all.”

“Really?”

Stiles looks a combination of apprehensive and profoundly grateful and Derek grins, separating the forks from the knives.

“Really,” Padraig says. “Now you two get out into the garden before all the tomatoes rot. I’m off to Home Depot for some more paint and new shutters.”

He disappears around the corner before abruptly returning with a pile of catalogs and envelopes. He dumps them on the counter in front of Stiles with a scowl.

“Go through the week’s mail, too. Most of it’s probably junk.”

Stiles starts sorting the important looking envelopes from the magazines and credit card offers, saluting with one hand.

“Behave!” Padraig yells from the hall, and with a jingle of keys, he’s gone.

“So,” Derek says, emerging from the laundry room with their buckets. “I take it I’ll be the one picking okra today.”

“Well deduced, Sherlock.” Stiles says, tossing another magazine on the junk pile. This is quickly followed by an “Ow. Ow. Ow. _Dangit_.”

“What?” Derek sets the buckets by the door, leaning over the counter. “What’s wrong?”

“Paper-cut,” Stiles says, showing him a sluggishly bleeding finger.

“So?”

“What do you mean, ‘so?” Paper cuts are the _worst_. ”

“Oh.” He realizes suddenly. “It doesn’t heal.”

“Well yeah, no shit.And now I’ve gotta make sure I don’t get salt in it for the rest of the day. Or dirt. Or shampoo. Or _salt._ Ugh. _”_

Stiles turns on the tap to rinse his finger, completely missing the way Derek is studying his own hands, bemused. They are unscarred. Soft. Missing all the little nuances of wear that Stiles’ hands have.

He wonders what it’s like to have paper-cuts that don’t heal as soon as they occur.

He fishes his cell phone out of his pocket and dials his father’s number.

“Yeah?” Padraig answers.

“Hey, dad. Can you drop by the Walmart on your way home?”

“Sure. What do you need?”

Derek glances at Stiles, sucking on his finger and looking both confused and vaguely murderous.

“Batman band-aids.” Derek says. “The waterproof tattoo kind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the first portion of this chapter looks familiar, it's because there's a scene that's quite similar in my Sherlock fic and I uh…"borrowed" a bit from it. Because I am lazy. And because "whoops character A has nightmares, guess character B will offer bed-sharing as a solution" is one of my favorite tropes. I am unapologetic.
> 
> Also, I have it on good authority that waterproof Batman bandaids facilitate faster healing than any other kind.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles is settling Penelope into her new terrarium that night when he realizes Scott is hovering in the hallway outside. Scott hasn’t actually _entered_ Stiles’ bedroom since the cobra incident two years before, and the fact that he’s even within ten feet of the door speaks to the fact that serious things are on his mind.

“You’re not uh…going to put that one with the others?” Scott asks.

Stiles is immediately apprehensive because if Scott is willing to use a tarantula as a conversation starter there’s something drastic going on.

“I can’t,” he answers, rearranging a bit of fauna before closing the lid. “They’d kill her. It will take a while before I can introduce her to the colony. Might not ever be able to, actually. We’ll have to see.”

“Right.”

Scott glances toward the wall where the snakes are kept and shudders. “So, speaking of dangerous creatures, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“No kidding. Give me a minute to feed Othello.” Stiles raises an eyebrow at his brother. “Unless you’d like to help?”

“Yeah, no.” Scott jerks a thumb toward the living room. “I’ll just…be anywhere but here until you’re done.”

Stiles laughs, pulling a frozen rat from the refrigerator/freezer under his desk. He heats it up for 2 minutes in the microwave beside the refrigerator, and then uses a pair of tongs to lower the dead rodent into one of the larger terrariums mounted on the opposite wall.

“Hey, pretty baby,” he whispers, watching the black mamba uncoil from the corner. “Dinner’s ready.”

Scott makes a retching noise from the living room.

Stiles joins Scott a few minutes later, throwing himself onto the couch and butting his head against Scott’s thigh until his brother gives up and starts scratching Stiles’ head.

“Which one of us is the wolf again?” Scott asks.

“Less talking, more petting,” Stiles directs.

“We do, actually, need to talk about something,” he says.

“So talk _while_ petting.”

“The, uh. The Kelpie. From the murder at the school. It might not have been as unrelated as I initially implied.”

Stiles sits up so quickly his head nearly clips Scott in the chin.

“What do you mean?”

“It wasn’t…it wasn’t one of the ones from the attack, alright? But it, it smelled similar. Blood similar. “

“You said it was young.”

“Yeah. Very. Like, your age. I think maybe it was after some revenge.”

“They did more damage to our pack than we did to theirs,” Stiles says sharply.

“True. But we still killed quite a few of them in the process.”

“It was _unprovoked_ ,” Stiles continues, voice rising. “If anyone should be out looking for revenge it’s _us_.”

“Preaching to the choir, sweetheart,” Scott says. “I’m just telling you what I think.”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why do you think its revenge? Whoever it killed at the school had nothing to do with us.”

Scott catches an arm around Stiles’ shoulders, pulling him close with more force than strictly necessary. His fingers comb through Stiles’ hair, strangely anxious.

“The boy that was killed was Damian Ross. Sophomore office aide. He was found wearing your backpack in the pool.”

“My—oh. I must have left it after—“ Stiles’ fingers curl suddenly as the full implications of this hit his. “Office aid. He was bringing my bag to the lost and found. The office is on the other side of the pool and it…Kelpies are blind. They act on scent. It thought Damian was _me_. Oh my god.”

“Yeah,” Scott says. “My thoughts exactly.”

“What do we do?”

He stills the fingers in Stiles’ hair, knocking curled knuckles against his temple.

“ _We_ do nothing. You go to school and try to be as normal as possible. The PD has offered to let me investigate further with an overseeing officer. Though considering they killed our only known lead, I don’t know how successful I’ll be.”

“They killed it?” Stiles asks, surprised. “But with you _and_ Padraig helping it should have been easy to take it into custody. Especially if it was young and alone.”

“Yeah, well. Beacon Hills PD is more of the ‘shoot first ask questions later’ mind.”

“That’s illegal. It goes against the Clear Intention Act. Unless an officer or civilian is being directly threatened by a superhuman creature they cannot kill it, regardless of the charges against it, especially if it’s juvenile.”

“Yeah? Man. We should really tell whatever government enforcement agency is in the area…oh wait.”

Stiles makes a disgruntled noise and Scott laughs for a moment before becoming serious again.

“In other news, I noticed you and Derek are getting along.”

Stiles gives him a sideways look. “Yeah. And?”

“Do I need to give you,” Scott raises his eyebrows, “ _the talk_?”

“Oh my god, Scott. No.”

“Well you _were_ kind of cuddling with him. And by ‘kind of’ I mean definitely, seriously, and without a doubt.”

“We’re friends, Scott. _Bros_.”

“Alright. Well, if that changes let me know.”

Stiles shudders. “I still won’t need the talk. That’s what the Internet is for. No talking required.”

“Right. I _would_ need to threaten him though.”

“With _what_? He’s a werewolf.”

“Yeah?” Scott growls, catching the curve of Stiles’ ear between his teeth, and pretending to gnaw on it for a moment. “So am I.”

Stiles snickers and pushes him away.

“Derek isn’t even cute, anyway.”

“Give it time. He’ll grow into his eyebrows eventually.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Stiles says, feeling oddly defensive. “There’s nothing wrong with his eyebrows.”

Scott gives him a superior look that makes Stiles consider releasing one of his less venomous snakes “on accident” next feeding time.

“Shut up,” he says.

The next day at school, Derek is standing by the entrance, looking awkward and small as he watches students file inside.

“Hey!” Stiles yells from the carport, bouncing down the bus steps. “You waited for me!”

“Obviously,” he answers, holding the door open.

Stiles heads for his first class, History, and Derek stays in step with him.

“What’s your first period?” Stiles asks.

“Algebra.”

“That’s, like, on the other side of the school.”

Derek nudges Stiles slightly to the side as several varsity basketball players pass in the opposite direction.

“My dad told me about the kelpie,” he says.

Stiles is starting to wonder if Derek only allows himself a certain number of spoken words per day. He considers his protective position as they turn the corner and purses his lips.

“So, what, you decided to walk me to all my classes? Make sure none of the other freshman are secretly kelpies waiting to drag me off to the bathroom and drown me in a toilet?”

“Yes.”

He coughs on an aborted laugh as Derek eyes the janitor distrustfully.

“Well thanks, I guess.”

They reach the history room door and Derek glances inside for moment before changing direction. “Don’t leave without me,” he says.

If people weren’t talking about them already, (which, they definitely were) people are certainly talking about them now. Stiles can’t decide if it’s because everyone knows about the fight, (Mark’s nose _is_ broken, he’s wearing a brace and looking monumentally embarrassed ducking through the hallways) or if it’s because Derek is the only non-human student at the high school this year. It seems the only support Derek will have is Stiles. They share one class, sophomore biology, and it was sophomore biology where he’d first met Derek three days earlier. Derek had been sitting in the front row, pushing nervously at his glasses while Mark, seated behind him, kicked the back of his chair. Stiles had noticed Derek’s hunched shoulders, his nervous backward glances, and he’d taken the desk behind Mark and kicked the back of _his_ chair until the teacher told them to both stop or they’d get detention. It was only later, in the hallway after class, when Mark had told Derek to do them all a favor and drop dead, that Stiles punched Mark in the face.

Today, he sits _beside_ Derek while Mark shuffles his way to the far back row. Stiles waves cheerfully at him.

“Asshole,” he says through his teeth.

The teacher calls the class to order and, _surprise_ , begins distributing the first pop quiz of the year.

“Expect pop quizzes every Friday,” he says, dropping a sheet on Stiles’ desk. He considers him and Derek for a minute as he continues speaking, “And If you’re not in class during the week you may find your performance on these quizzes lacking.”

“If we expect them, they’re not exactly pop quizzes, are they?” Stiles mutters.

Derek gives Stiles’ heel a reprimanding nudge with the toe of his sneaker.

“What was that?” the teacher says, returning to Stiles’ desk. He consults his roll for a moment. “Genim, did you have something you’d like to say?”

“Stiles,” he corrects quickly. “My name is Stiles.”

“It says here your name is Genim,” he responds.

“Yeah, well, it says _your_ name is Thomas in the school directory, but I bet you’d rather I call you Mr. Harris.”

Derek nudges his foot harder.

“Mr. Stilinski,” Mr. Harris says, “You only just got back from being suspended, you probably shouldn’t be looking for trouble again so soon.”

Stiles twirls the pen in his hand. “Actually, I—“

“Excuse me,” Derek interrupts, outright kicking Stiles now, “I have a question.”

Mr. Harris consults his roll again.

 “Derek?”

“Yes” he says, giving Stiles a look that can only be interpreted as fury. “I— I believe a question on this exam is incorrect.”

“I’m sorry, the _question_ is incorrect?” The teacher asks. He moves from Stiles’ desk to Derek’s and Derek takes a breath, looking relieved.

“Yes. Number six, ‘True or False: According to Evolutionary theory, an organism works on it’s environment.’”

Mr. Harris crosses his arms. “Well, I don’t see any issue with it. I’d say that’s a pretty cut and dry question.”

“Not really,” Derek says slowly, eyes still trained on the exam in front of him.“It’s true that at the beginning, evolutionary theory prescribed the idea that an environment works upon the organism within it. But in 1966 George Williams suggested a branch model of evolution called Niche Construction Theory which suggests that in many cases an organism can work on it’s environment as well, creating a cyclic relationship.”

His words speed up, one riding the heels of the next, like his brain is moving nearly too fast for his mouth to follow. “It suggests that, as an environment forces change in an organism, the organism in turn effects the environment in shifting the traits chosen for survivability due to natural selection. Like—“his fingers move, grasping at something only he can see, “like a feedback loop. Examples being keystone species. Beavers. Termites. Leafcutter ants. And since William’s original publishings, Richard Dawkins, as well as several of his contemporaries, have improved on the theory and it is now widely accepted as valid within the scientific community. So.”

He breathes for the first time since he began speaking. “So neither true or false would be a correct answer in this instance. The question itself is wrong.”

Stiles has never really understood the phrase “so quiet you could hear a pin drop,” until this moment.

He grins, while Derek seems to shrink in his seat under the sudden and complete scrutiny of the room.

Mr. Harris appears rather lost. “I—“ he moves to his desk to consult a copy of the quiz. “I’ll have to look into that.”

For the space of a swallow and a glance at the clock above the door, he gathers himself. “For now,” he says, “cross out question six. It will not count.”

Everyone is still staring at Derek.

“You will have twenty minutes,” the teacher says, raising his voice in an effort to regain the class’ attention. “Starting now. So. Get to work.”

Pens and pencils are slowly picked up around the room and Stiles leans toward Derek’s hunched form.

“Not gunna lie,” he whispers, “I’m a little bit turned on right now.”

Derek gives Stiles another furious look and curls more protectively around his quiz.

“Shhh,” he says.

After class, Stiles barely waits until they’re in the hall before shrieking, which, memo to self, is actually a bad a idea because Derek’s nose flares and his eyes get more blue than brown for a minute before he realizes there’s nothing actually wrong with Stiles.

“ _What_?” he says, scowling. “And keep your voice down.”

Stiles is starting to rethink his defense of Derek’s eyebrows. They _are_ pretty massive, especially when he’s irritated and they’re cinched down low over his eyes.

“Dude. What _was_ that?” Stiles whisper-screams.

“What was what?”

“ _That_ , in class.”

“I have an eidetic memory,” Derek says, like he’s commenting, albeit somewhat angrily, on the weather. “And I read a lot.”

“But, you totally _owned_ him! It was a burn of _epic_ proportions.”

Derek throws his arm out, stopping a locker door from hitting Stiles in the face.

“I didn’t get any enjoyment from it. I was just trying to keep _you_ out of trouble.”

“But that’s no fun. Trouble is where the party’s at.”

“You’re a menace,” he says.

Stiles deflates slightly. “Yeah. I get that a lot.”

Derek steers them into the cafeteria, looking vaguely constipated as he considers Stile’s expression.

“That wasn’t—I don’t actually think you’re—” He drops his backpack at a table, making an annoyed noise that sounds far too feral to be human. “Did you bring a lunch or are you buying something?”

“Brought one.”

Stiles fishes a brown sack out of his backpack. Well, it’s actually Scott’s old backpack. His is still in evidence lock-up at the precinct. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get it back, and he doesn’t particularly want it back anyway.

“Stay here,” Derek says, firmly, like he has seniority and Stiles is required to listen him. Stiles considers reminding Derek that they aren’t actually pack and the I’m-the-alpha-of-you tone won’t work on him, but decides against it. He salutes Derek with a banana instead.

“Sir, yes sir.”

Derek makes another frustrated noise, low in his throat, before stalking off to the food line.

Stiles hums “Hungry Like the Wolf” by Duran Duran while he waits for Derek to get back.

Completely unsurprisingly, Derek is not amused.

“So I think I’m having an existential crisis,” Stiles says as they leave the lunchroom twenty minutes later.

“You’re fifteen.”

“And? Do existential crises have an age limit?”

Derek rolls his eyes, catching Stiles’ elbow in an attempt to direct him out of the main flow of post-lunch traffic.

“I mean,” Stiles continues, “here I was thinking I’m going to be the brains to your grumpy furry brawn. But it turns out you’re probably smarter than me anyway. Similar to an immune human in the inevitable zombie apocalypse, you have no need for additional brains. Do you see my problem now? Boom. Existential crisis.”

“I don’t think that word means what you think it means. Also, zombies aren’t real.”

“According to the world at large neither were werewolves ten years ago.” Stiles taps his forehead as they pause in the doorway of his next class.

“Question everything,” he counsels. “My point here, though, is that you and I were supposed to be the perfect team, but it turns out you don’t even _need_ me.”

“I do.”

Stiles goes still, a few steps into the classroom, and spins to face Derek again.

“Say what?”

“I—“ Derek clears his throat and the constipated look makes a triumphant return.

“My nightmares. Psychologically speaking, regardless of a person’s education within the field, one cannot diagnose or treat themselves because of inevitable bias.”

“So…you’re saying you need me to help fix your crazy.”

“I don’t think that’s politically correct. But, yes. You said—”

He glances behind him at the group of students waiting to get into the classroom. They seem to be particularly interested in the conversation Stiles and Derek are having.

“You said you would cure me. Two nights ago,” Derek says quietly, but firmly. “I expect you to do so.”

Stiles grins. “Sure thing. You wanna hit the library after school? Grab some books and do some research after we finish our homework?”

“Alright.”

Derek moves further inside the door, so the people outside can get past him. “Would you like to come home with me then? The last bus will have left by the time we find anything useful.”

“Sure, I’ve just gotta let Scott know.” Stiles waves a dismissive hand. “Shoo. You’re going to be late for class.”

Derek nods, ducking back into the hall, as Stiles digs his cellphone out of his pocket.

Scott answers on the second ring.

“If you’re in trouble again I’m disowning you.”

“Lies,” he says, feigning offense. “Everything’s totally fine, anyway. I just wanted to let you know I’m going to Derek’s after school. Can you pick me up there when you get off?”

“I guess. What are y’all going to do?”

Stiles props the phone against his shoulder. “Oh, you know, the usual: sex, drugs, harnessing the awesome power of the undead.”

“Great. Is Padraig going to be there?”

“No idea. But don’t worry. I’ll call you if our satanic ritual goes badly.”

The sarcasm in Scott’s voice is heavy. “Fantastic.”

“Whoops. Class is about to start. Love you, see you tonight!”

“Love you too. Make wise choices!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it turns out that Tuesdays seem to be a good day for updating. So, unless something changes, plan on that from here on out. If you're the planning sort, of course. See you next week!


	6. Chapter 6

Derek sits on a stool at his counter and watches, both enraptured and somewhat horrified, as Stiles eats a handful of curly fries. When Padraig had picked Derek and Stiles up from the Library, each with a psychology textbook under their arms, he’d stopped by the hamburger place on the way home to get them dinner. He said it was bribery to ensure they would spend a least a little bit of time that evening in the garden, but Stiles, Derek has noticed, doesn’t seem to need any encouragement. As long as he doesn’t have to touch the okra, he’s sort of bafflingly content to pull weeds and crawl around under fig trees looking for ripe fruit.

Derek takes a bite of his second hamburger and considers the boy beside him. He’s wearing jeans and a black t-shirt with the batman symbol on it, there’s ketchup on his elbow, and his long fingers are leaving grease spots on everything he touches. Derek finds him annoyingly endearing.

Stiles shoves another handful of fries into his mouth and makes a noise that is in no way decent.

“What is it about curly fries that make them so good?” he asks, “I’d suspect demonic involvement but they’re just too tasty to be the product of evil, you know? What do you think?”

Derek tries not to smile as he licks his fingers.

“I think you’re deranged.”

“Only a little.” Stiles turns the page of the textbook he’s got propped open in his lap and Derek tries not to shudder at the greasy thumb-print he leaves.

“So I think we need to do like, a sleep study,” Stiles says.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. We’ll need to figure out when the nightmares start, REM cycle wise, and keep a log of things that could potentially trigger you during the day.You’ll need to write down the stuff you do before you go to bed too, basically just keep like, a really close eye on anything that could disturb your sleep patterns, right? That way we can at least narrow down if it’s an external stimulus affecting when the nightmares occur; see if there’s a pattern.”

“How do you expect me to monitor my own REM cycles?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Obviously that’s where I come in.”

“So, what, you’re just going to watch me sleep every night?”

“Sure.”

“When would _you_ sleep?”

Stiles waves a dismissive hand, as if this is a stupid question. “Whenever.”

Derek finishes his hamburger, rolling the wax paper wrapper into a ball. “I’ll keep the log, but you’re not watching me sleep.”

“Aw, come on. Please?”

“No.”

“What if we only did it on the weekends?”

“No.”

Stiles turns the bag the fries came in inside out and licks salt from the corners, looking contemplative.

“What if I promised to behave in school? Like, genuinely tried not to get into trouble.”

Derek catches Stiles’ wrist, turning his arm so he can see the ketchup smeared below his elbow.

“Maybe,” Derek says resignedly, “But if we do it, we do it in the loft, not my room.”

“That adds a whole other component to the data, though!” Stiles complains, moving to lick his arm.

“Loft,” Derek repeats. “And for god’s sake, use a napkin.”

“Fine,” Stiles says, not using a napkin. “Loft.”

Stiles closes the textbook, sliding it onto the counter, and glances out the window. The back yard is really only a stretch of about ten yards of patchy grass that houses a rusted swing set and old clothes line before the wall of feed-corn interferes.

“Corn looks about ready,” Stiles says conversationally.

“My dad sold it to a guy from Gunnersville. He’s going to come harvest it this weekend.”

“Which means that, hypothetically, if we wanted to see if it were possible to jump from the swing set into the cornfield, today might be our last chance?”

“No,” Derek says.

“Please?”

“You’re a human,” Derek reminds him. “If your bones break they stay that way for a while.”

“So I’ll make sure I don’t break any.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works.”

Stiles moves from the stool to the back door, looking pensive. “Will _you_ at least try? I promise I’ll just watch.”

Derek heaves a sigh. “One time,” he says, taking off his glasses, “and then we’re doing homework.”

One time turns into about twenty-five times and at some point Stiles climbs onto the top of the swing set in order to get photos of Derek airborne above the corn.

“Oh, man!” he yells, nearly falling off of his perch, gesturing wildly, as Derek stumbles out of the field after their latest attempt.

“That one was _awesome_! It looks like you’re diving right into it! Okay, okay, I have the best idea. This time, try a superman pose, because he grew up on a farm, right? I bet he flew over corn all the time, right?”

“Right,” Derek agrees seriously, throwing himself back into the swing. He picks up momentum fast, actually sort of smiling.

“You ready?””

“Almost. Okay. One…Two…”

“Derek? Stiles? What are you doing?”

Derek squawks, already in mid-air, and pinwheels his arms wildly for a moment before crashing out of sight into the relatively mangled looking section of corn in front of them.

Stiles nearly falls off the swing set again, spinning to face Padraig who is standing on the porch looking baffled.

“Heeeeey, Mr. Hale,” Stiles says. He flips upside-down, grabs the nearest swing’s chains, and uses them to assist in his descent to the ground. “You would not _believe_ the epic pictures I’ve got of Derek.”

“Epic,” Padraig repeats, watching as Derek moves sheepishly forward to join them on the porch. He’s got corn a corn tassel stuck behind one ear and a bit of husk tucked in the collar of his shirt. There’s dirt on the knees of his jeans.

“You’ve been…playing?” Padraig asks, looking somewhat lost.

“Sorry.” Derek rubs his brown-stained palms on his thighs. “It was only going to be for a minute. We’ll go finish our homework now.”

“No, it’s…” Padraig swallows. “It’s fine. I just wanted to remind you the zucchini needs some attention whenever you get around to it. No hurry though.”

Stiles is watching the exchange with furrowed eyebrows. He brightens at the mention of zucchini. “Can we work in the garden for an hour first, before homework?”

Padraig looks even more baffled.

“I suppose. If that’s what you’d like to do.”

“Sweet! Come on.” He grabs Derek’s wrist and drags him around the corner of the house. “I was actually reading about Zucchinis last night. I’m educating myself on this gardening stuff.”

“Why? It’s not that exciting.”

“Of course it is. It’s literally taking dirt, like, totally boring, useless dirt, and making food come out of it. Its sort of it’s own kind of magic, if you think about it. Tasty, tasty magic.”

Derek admits that he’s never really thought of it like that before.

When Scott arrives to pick Stiles up a few hours later, he lingers in the front hall, talking to Padraig in suspiciously hushed tones.

Derek leaves Stiles on the couch, reading a different psychology textbook, and attempts to eavesdrop.

“—Obviously weren’t thinking we’d actually find anything,” Scott is saying, “and now that we have it’s almost like it’s too good to be true.”

“Are you certain it was the same group that attacked your family?” Padraig asks.

“Positive. But I can’t—I’m telling you, there’s something wrong. I shouldn’t have been able to find them unless they _wanted_ to be found.”

“Can I be of assistance?” Padraig says.

“What? No. I mean. Not right now, anyway. I’ve got to see if I can figure out what their angle is. I just—I switch to night shifts next month and knowing that they’re back is—I don’t feel comfortable leaving Stiles alone. I know it’s a lot to ask, but—“

“Of course,” Padraig interrupts. “He can stay with us any time you’re not available to ensure his safety. His company is hardly an imposition.”

“Well, you’d be the first person to think that,” Scott says, resigned. “People call him ‘difficult’ when they’re being nice.”

“He’s spirited,” Padraig says. “As I’m sure he had to be growing up within the environment he did. But he’s kind and intelligent and a hard worker. After four days of his tending it, my garden is more picturesque than it has ever been and,” he pauses, lowering his voice even further, “today I found him encouraging my son to jump off the swing set into the corn field and he _was_. Happily.”

“What? Why?”

“Exactly. There was no point to it. But Derek was doing it anyway. And he was smiling. _Laughing_. I have not heard my son laugh in nearly six months and after three days in his company, your brother has Derek _playing in the back yard_. When I say Stiles’ company is welcome here I mean it.”

A sharp elbow nudges Derek’s side and he flinches before he realizes its Stiles.

Stiles pretends not to notice.

“What are they saying?” He whispers loudly.

Padraig and Scott come around the corner a moment later looking un-amused while Stiles feigns confusion.

“Oh, wow, hey Scott, didn’t even know you were here. Guess I better go find my shoes, huh?”

Derek carefully avoids his father’s eye as he packs Stiles’ books into his backpack. He tucks a mason jar full of fresh figs in the top before zipping it closed and carries it outside, where Stiles arguing with Scott.

“I’m not a _child_ , anymore,” Stiles is saying, arms crossed angrily over his narrow chest. “I don’t need a _babysitter_ on the nights when you can’t be at the house.”

“Stiles, come on. If the social worker comes by one night and you’re cooking dinner by yourself while I’m out working, how well do you think that’s going to go over?”

Derek shifts uncomfortably on the porch, realizing that Scott doesn’t intend to tell Stiles the truth behind his reluctance to leave him alone.

“They’re going to get _sick_ of me,” Stiles says lowly, “and then I’ll be back to having zero friends in this hellhole of a town and no garden to play in, or owls to visit or _Derek_.”

Derek purposely treads on the squeaky porch step in his descent to the front yard and the siblings both look up.

He unslings Stiles’ backpack from his shoulder and offers it to the other boy with a hesitant smile. “I guess if you’re going to be spending nights here for a while we can do that sleep study thing, if you still want to.”

He doesn’t know why he says it. In fact, after he’s said it, Derek immediately _regrets_ saying it, but Stiles’ grin, once the words are registered, almost makes up for the inevitable frustration that will come from sharing his territory at night.

Stiles punches Derek in the shoulder before moving to the passenger side of the car.

“Don’t forget to start your log tonight, then.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Stiles beams at him. “You just made a joke.”

He doesn’t respond and Scott starts the engine.

“There’s hope for you yet!” Stiles yells, hanging out the passenger window. “See you on Monday, Krypto!”

Padraig joins Derek on the porch as he watches the dust trail settle.

“Who’s Krypto?” Padraig asks.

“Superman’s dog,” Derek answers, smiling despite himself.

“Ah,” Padraig says, “of course.”

On Monday Derek waits by the school doors again, trying not growl when Stiles’ bus shows up almost four minutes later than it’s supposed to.

“Hidey-ho, Ranger Joe!” he yells, drawing even more attention to him.

“My name is not Joe,” Derek says, and Stiles laughs like he’s made a joke.

The day is relatively boring, all things considered. They eat lunch together, people stare at them in the hallways, and Derek spends most of Biology kicking Stiles’ nearest shoe to circumvent unneeded commentary on the teacher’s credibility as an instructor.

He meets Stiles outside the gym after his final class of the day, and resists the urge to smooth flat his rumpled hair. It’s in the awkward stage of growing out of its buzz cut, some pieces longer than others.

“One of the nests has started fledging,” Derek says, trying to sound casual. “You can come see, if you’d like.”

“I—“ Stiles runs a sweaty hand over his hair, leaving it even wilder. “I dunno. I’ve got, you know. Stuff. To do.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, looking uncertain and sort of miserable.

It only takes Derek a few confused seconds of consideration before he understands.

“I won’t—I’m not going to get tired of you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Stiles winces. “You heard that, huh, on Friday?”

“Werewolf,” Derek says, shrugging.

“Right.”

“It if helps, it’s not as if I’ve got any other options in the friend department either.”

“That’s super encouraging, thank you.”

They get to the parking lot and pause outside the doors.

“So,” Derek says, nodding toward Padraig’s truck at the curb. “Owls?”

“Obviously.”

They actually end up working in the garden for most of the afternoon while Padraig moves back and forth from house to preserve on the four-wheeler setting up his filming equipment.

For someone so constantly in motion, Stiles goes oddly still when working in the garden. His movements become measured and careful, his breathing even, his pulse slow.

For the last few minutes, for example, Stiles has been slowly trying to coax the roots of a weed from an entanglement with the roots of a green bean plant.

“Just rip it,” Derek suggests. “You’ve got the top.”

“It’s Blindweed,” Stiles says, fingers carefully working between the two plants. “If you don’t get the roots they can still photosynthesize and grow back.”

“How do you know that?”

“Wikipedia. I told you, I’ve been researching this gardening shit.”

He gives a sudden sharp tug, and falls backward with a grin, holding the entire weed in one hand.

“You got it?” Derek asks.

“Uh-huh,” Stiles tosses it onto the pile of trash between them, winking. “You could say I got to the _root_ of the problem.”

“Do not even start.”

“You really shouldn’t _turnip_ your nose at puns, Derek.”

Stiles beams at him, waiting for a response, and Derek throws a handful of crabgrass at him.

“Seriously,” Stiles entreats, “Try it. Just one vegetable pun. For me.”

“How’s this: If you don’t stop I’ll _beet_ you.”

Stiles gives him a thumbs-up. “Perfect, very nice. _Lettuce_ continue.”

“Let’s not.”

“Why must you _squash_ my dreams?”

The four-wheeler saves him from providing an answer as Padraig pulls beside the garden, standing up on the foot pegs to see them over the terraced muscadine vines.

“Everything’s set up. You two want to eat something before the show starts?”

“Sure,” Derek says.

“I would _relish_ that,” Stiles agrees.

“Relish isn’t even a vegetable,” Derek mutters. “It’s a condiment.”

Stiles leans forward, tucking the purple bloom from the Blindweed behind Derek’s ear, and sticks out his tongue before jumping up and heading for the house.

Derek sticks out his own tongue as he stands to follow.

He leaves the flower behind his ear.

When Scott arrives to pick Stiles up he finds them a half-mile from the house, laid out on quilts, watching owlets learn to fly in the twilight.

He flops down beside Padraig without saying anything and the older man starts up a quiet monologue about long-eared owl breeding habits and population ratios of other birds within their class.

Derek doesn’t think Scott is really listening, but it seems Padraig doesn’t care.

Anyone can tell that Scott is lonely.

It’s been difficult enough for Derek and Padraig to be separated from their pack for the last four months. And that’s with Skype and telephone calls and a frankly annoying amount of glitter-filled mail from his younger cousins. Derek can’t imagine what it would be like if their pack had been _killed_ ; if suddenly he was alone, or even worse, alone and responsible for a human. The very idea leaves his chest aching with sympathetic horror.

He watches as his father moves subtly closer to Stiles’ brother, bracing his shoulder against Scott’s as he shifts to point toward the nest, still talking. Scott unconsciously leans into the pressure and the harrowed edge to his posture diminishes by a few degrees.

Stiles elbows Derek in the side, nodding to his brother and Padraig, as if he wasn’t already looking at them. “Remind me to thank your dad,” Stiles whispers.

Derek nods and he settles back on his arms, eyes toward the sky.

“There were eight of us, altogether,” Stiles volunteers, suddenly. “Scott, me, Mom, Dad, Aunt C, and our two older siblings.”

Derek doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he doesn’t.

“I don’t—I can’t fully understand what Scott’s been going through. I mean, I lost my family but he lost his _pack_ too, you know? And I—I can’t _be_ that for him, even if I want to. I don’t know how to help.”

He gnaws on his bottom lip, eyes still on the owls. “I’ve read about it, about the psychology behind pack structure. My mom was the most dominant one and Scott was probably the most submissive, either him or my oldest sister. They like, needed her approval, you know? Not in a creepy way or anything, just, little things. ”

“Affirmation,” Derek says, “in words and deeds.”

“Yeah. Exactly. But I’m like, not even on that spectrum. So it doesn’t matter if I touch his shoulder or tell him he’s doing a good job, it doesn’t calm him down the way it does when,” he nods to Padraig and Scott a few yards away, now talking in low, indistinct voices, “somebody like your dad does it. ”

“Was there nowhere else to go?” Derek asks. “No extended family that would accept him into their pack?”

Stiles laughs without humor. “Yeah, sure. Loads of people wanted him. But none of them would take me too.”

“Oh.”

He sighs, crossing his hands in a pillow behind his head. “Like I said before. Scott is stuck here with me at least for another year and a half. I just hope he can stay sane that long.”

“My dad will help.” Derek says. “He’s one of the most dominant wolves in the US and UK combined.He tested in the top ninety-fifth percentile. But his protective instincts are almost as high as well. He’s—he’s exceptionally kind. Obviously. Since he was willing to pick up and leave for me. So, I wouldn’t worry about Scott too much. At least not while we’re here.”

Stiles nods, turning to face him instead of the sky. “Do you have any siblings?”

“Three. Two sisters and a brother. My oldest sister Laura is the Alpha of Colorado.”

He considers leaving it at that but Stiles just shared something sorely personal and he feels like he should at least make an attempt to return the favor.

“My mother was half Brazilian, half Irish,” he continues. “Wolf on the Brazilian side. The mixture of my father’s heritage and hers made conceiving exceptionally difficult for them. The existence of my siblings and I is something of a miracle within the Irish wolf community.”

“Wolf blood breeds true though, right?”

“Yes. But my father’s brand of lycanthropy and my mother’s came from two very different genomes. Until Laura’s birth they were uncertain if any children they had would be able to shift at all.”

“Dang. But you can, right? Like, full form? Or do you get stuck in a wolf-man sort of situation?”

“Full form,” Derek snorts.

They go quiet for several minutes and he can hear Stiles breaths lengthening, moving closer and closer to sleep as the pale light behind the trees fades to darkness and the stars start to come out.

Scott stands with a resigned exhale when the moon begins to rise.

“We should get home,” he says to Padraig, and then, quieter, “thanks.”

Derek nudges Stiles awake and watches as he and his brother wave their goodbyes and start, arm in arm, back toward the house.

Derek lies back on his blanket, studying his father’s outline a few yards away, and feels somewhat lost in their absence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some terrible puns.
> 
> See you next week!


	7. Chapter 7

Two weeks later, Stiles arrives at the school with an overnight bag and a massive pillow. He is last to get off the bus.

“What is _that_?” Derek asks, taking the duffle from him.

“It’s a pillow, assface,” Stiles says cheerfully, “what does it look like?”

Derek walks stiles to his locker to drop off his things, and then to history class, and refrains from making any other comments.

They have fallen into something of a pattern.

Derek keeps close to Stiles in the hallways, glaring at anyone who gets too close to them, saving Stiles from minor injury at the hands of everything from thrown projectiles to wet floors. Stiles goes home with him every other day to work in the garden and check owl nests and dare him to do dangerous, pointless things. Occasionally, Derek joins him and, occasionally, they make use of the batman Band-Aids now residing in Derek’s bathroom drawer.

Derek has been keeping a journal. He still won’t tell Stiles what the nightmares are about, but they’ve discovered that they usually occur when something in his evening routine has changed, or something stressful has happened during the day that leaves him feeling on edge come nighttime. It’s not much to go on, but with that information alone he’s managed an entire week without having an incident, which is progress, if nothing else. He has also reluctantly agreed to let Stiles watch him sleep tonight. He worries Stiles is a little too excited about the impending experiment.

When Padraig picks them up that afternoon there’s a brief debate over where the pillow will go because the cab of the truck is actually quite small and the pillow is…not. Stiles demands it be given his customary place in the cab, and that he will ride in the truck bed. Padraig finds this idea ridiculous. Stiles doesn’t care what Padraig thinks.

Derek sits on the curb and listens to them argue and is only a little surprised when his father, one of the most dominant werewolves in the world, eventually gives up and manhandles the gigantic pillow inside the vehicle.

Stiles climbs into the back looking smug and Derek insists on riding in the bed with Stiles, just in case.

Padraig mutters about ridiculous teenaged idiots all the way to the house.

He may or may not hit a few potholes intentionally.

Once they’re finished with homework, Derek heads for the laundry room to get the gardening buckets but Stiles doesn’t follow him. He sticks his head back around the corner, confused.

“Can I go put my stuff up in the loft?” Stiles asks, “I’ll catch up with you in a little bit.”

“Oh. Sure.”

He doesn’t move, watching as Stiles carries the bag and ridiculous pillow upstairs. He spends an additional minute, still holding the buckets, trying to think of a good excuse to follow. None come to mind, but eventually he sets down the buckets and goes up anyway.

He stops a few stairs from the top and peers around the corner, watching as Stiles pulls out a bag of toiletries and moves to leave it in the bathroom. A moment later he arranges a short stack of clothing on the floor, plugs in his laptop and phone chargers to the wall outlet, and then carefully tucks the giant pillow into the line where the sloping roof meets the air mattress.

Derek realizes he’s actually being pretty creepy and turns, retreats two steps before freezing.

“You’re about as stealthy as an indecisive elephant,” Stiles says, leaning over the banister.

Derek winces.

Stiles raises an amused eyebrow at him.

“Also,” Stiles says, “your ‘casual’ face is more of a ‘HEY LOOK AT ME I AM BEING SO CASUAL’ face, so would you please just ask whatever it is you want to ask.”

“I—what’s with the pillow?

Stiles shrugs.“I, uh, tend to cuddle things. In my sleep. I figure if I do fall asleep I’ll try to molest it instead of you.”

“Oh. Thank you?”

Padraig comes thumping up the stairs a moment later. “If you boys are done with your homework, I could use some help, Derek. There’s a storm coming in and I want to try and cover the hole in the roof of the barn before it does.” Padraig considers Stiles. “No offense, but I’d rather not have you on the roof of a building.”

Derek snorts.

Stiles salutes. “Can’t fault you there. That’s cool. I was just about to call Scott anyway.”

Father and son go back downstairs.

Stiles hums “She-Wolf” by Shakira from the loft as he digs out his cellphone.

The rain rolls in as they’re putting away the ladder and by the time they run back to the house, both father and son are soaked.

Stiles sits in the kitchen, laughing as they shake off, strangely (not so strangely?) dog-like, on the porch, before dashing to their respective bathrooms to shower and change. He cleans up the damp trails they leave and then sets about making grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup because there’s really nothing else that can be made. The Hale’s refrigerator and cabinets are nearly as barren as the Stilinski’s. While he’s at it, Stiles also scrounges up some sandwiches and packs a lunch for both him and Derek for the next school day.

They eat on the living room floor, playing monopoly and listening to the rattle of rain on the metal roof. Derek makes instant hot-chocolate when they finish dinner and Padraig is a terrible banker but they forgive him when he promises to wash dishes. Stiles cheats and they let him.

At 9pm Padraig shelves the last of the now-clean dishes and tells them to wipe down the counters, lock up, and go to sleep.

Stiles moves to the back door while Derek wets a rag for the counters.

It’s as Stiles is returning from the front hallway that thunder booms, sounding as if it’s directly overhead, and the power goes out. It flickers back on a moment later and, when it does, Derek is no longer standing beside the counter.

Stiles glances around the kitchen, then ducks to peer under the kitchen table.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

Derek tries to look casual from where he’s crouched a few feet way and fails miserably.

“Nothing,” he says, “I… dropped something.”

“Under the kitchen table?”

“Yes.”

Stiles raises a disbelieving eyebrow. “You find it?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Derek, are you afraid of thunderstorms?”

“ _No_ ,” he says.

“YES,” Padraig yells from his bedroom around the corner.

“I was surprised, okay?” Derek says, wincing, “I just wasn’t expecting it.”

Stiles doesn’t laugh like he’s expecting.

“Makes sense,” Stiles says, offering him a hand. “Come on, let’s go upstairs.”

Stiles doesn’t give Derek a chance for the embarrassment to hit, teasing him for his very precise face-washing routine and making rabies jokes about toothpaste foam as they stand, side-by-side at the sink and brush their teeth.

He flops onto the air mattress, just past 9:30, wearing green lantern boxers and a Beacon Hills Police Academy T-Shirt that Derek thinks is probably Scott’s.

Derek joins him in a similarly requisitioned shirt and flannel pajama bottoms.

“Are you sure you still want to…” he gestures wordlessly at the space he has left for him.

“Yep.”

“You don’t-uh. I didn’t kick you or anything last time, right?”

“Nah, man. You were great. Ten out of ten. A-plus. Would snuggle again.”

Derek sits down before the instinct to run away prevails.

“You realize I’m probably going to have a nightmare tonight, right?” Derek says.

“That’s kinda the point,” Stiles reminds him. “I mean, we know if your nighttime routine is jacked up you usually do and,” he wiggles in place, “here I am, messing up your routine. Chill. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

Derek would rather not phrase it out loud.

“Chill,” Stiles repeats, and tucks himself against the wall. “Now go to sleep so we can get this show on the road.”

The rain on the roof turns from a smatter to a roar and Derek sighs.

“That might not be so easy tonight. Radar said it might even hail later.”

Stiles worries his bottom lip against his teeth. “That sucks. I hope the garden makes it through okay. I wish there was something we could do to like, cover it, you know? It’d suck if hail tore up all our hard work.”

It’s quiet for several seconds as the rain slips back into a lull of sound, and Derek asks, “Is the second sack lunch in the refrigerator for me?”

“Nah. They’re both for me. I’m a growing boy, you know?”

Derek kicks him, albeit gently, under the covers.

He kicks Derek back, not so gently.

“It might be for you,” Stiles says, voice muddled behind a pillow.

“Well I might be appreciative then.”

“Shut up and go to sleep,” Stiles says.

The nightmares always start with the moon.

The harvest moon, actually, and Derek is in the woods and the stars are bright and his breath is making curling clouds of steam. He’s wearing his fur so the chill can’t touch his skin and he’s running, breathing hard, nails digging into ice-crusted soil, cold air burning the back of his throat.

It starts happy; he’s running for the joy of it. But then he realizes something is wrong. His pack is missing. And then he realizes he’s being chased. He’s being chased and his pack is gone and he is alone and afraid and suddenly he doesn’t recognize the trees. The smell of the woods goes sour and unfamiliar. The constellations shift. The moon is blacked by a cloud. And then they catch him. Wolfsbane ropes blister his skin and he shifts automatically, bare against snow, human voice weak when he screams and he’s _burning…_

and then he’s breathing through clenched teeth and he can hear rain on the roof and it’s dark and Stiles is watching him.

Derek closes his eyes and takes a moment to drag himself out of the terror and back to clean sheets and the hum of the air-conditioning unit. He hadn’t pissed himself at least. That was something. When he opens his eyes again Stiles hasn’t moved.

“Derek,” Stiles says.

“Hey, yeah,” he answers. “Sorry.”

Stiles frowns at him.

“Why are you apologizing?”

“I—“ he takes several more breaths. “I don’t know…” he attempts a smile. “Sorry.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Go back to sleep,” he says, as if it’s that easy.

“I can’t,” Derek admits, sitting up. “Not now.”

The dream is still too close, the darkness too intrusive.

“I need to turn on the light, is that okay?”

“Go for it, dude,” Stiles says, lounging back against his ridiculous pillow. “As much as I hate the fact that this storm is probably going to ruin the garden, it sounds pretty damn cool right now.”

Derek turns on the lamp at the desk before siding back under the covers. He mimics Stiles’ position, arms behind his head, studying the ceiling. The noise of rain on the metal roof is both loud and soothing, nearly melodic in tone depending upon what part of the eve the water is hitting. The accompanying thunder is nearly continuous.

“Doesn’t seem to be much lightning,” Stiles muses. “My Aunt and I used to watch storms together. The rest of our family hated them, too loud and weird or whatever for their senses. But she loved them. She’d let me sit in her lap on the porch and tell me fae stories about Mages who were so powerful they could paint with lightning and control the clouds.”

Derek makes a noncommittal noise, still trying to get his breathing back to normal, and Stiles scoots closer to him.

“When Scott used to get scared at night when we were little he’d listen to my heartbeat to fall back asleep.”

“I’m not _scared_ ,” Derek says.

“Hey,” Stiles says, shrugging, “I’m just saying. I know it helps to have something to focus on as a distraction when it’s nighttime and you’re feeling all …vulnerable.”

“I don’t feel _vulnerable_ ,” Derek snaps. “I’m fine.”

Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Dude, you’re shaking so bad your teeth are practically chattering. Either tell me what I can do to help or I’m going to keep suggesting things.”

Derek glares at him.

Stiles glares back.

“What you can do is stop being stupid,” Derek mutters, because apparently he’s five years old.

Stiles looks genuinely hurt for a moment, and then rolls over. “You’re lucky the prime directive clearly states that primitive species should not be interfered with until they’ve reached a certain level of maturity in their evolutionary tree because I would _so_ be punching you in the face right now.”

Derek watches as Stiles wraps both his arms and legs around the ridiculous pillow, and makes an annoyed sound.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You’re just proving my point, dude. Star Trek. It’s a thing.”

“What point? What _thing_?!”

Stiles doesn’t say anything and after a moment Derek crawls over to him, forcibly rolling Stiles onto his back.

Stiles squawks, flailing slightly,

“Oh come on, no super strength, that’s not fair—what are you doing?”

“Don’t move,” Derek says gruffly, and lies down, tucking himself into Stiles side.

It’s a little awkward, and at first he isn’t sure what to do with his arms, but eventually he settles with one ear pressed to Stiles heart.

Stiles opens his mouth to speak and Derek’s head moves with the intake of breath.

“Don’t say _anything_ ,” Derek growls, and Stiles slowly lets the breath out, laughing softly.

A few moments later, Stiles shifts and his slender fingers work their way into Derek’s hair.

Derek thinks he should probably protest. Because letting Stiles _pet_ him is definitely not okay. But he decides to let it go, just for a little bit, because it feels so annoyingly _good_. Within three minutes, Derek is asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit of a lull chapter, hopefully I haven't bored you. More action next time!


	8. Chapter 8

Derek wakes up to an exceptionally loud clap of thunder and finds himself with a few excess limbs. At some point in the night Stiles must have migrated because he is currently attached to him like a limpet. An exceptionally warm, possibly drooling, limpet.

When Derek tries to shift him, he grumbles and then sits up, looking lost.

“Shit,” Stiles says, rolling off. “I must have fallen asleep. Sorry.”

He rubs a hand through his hair, yawing, as Derek stands.

“Did you have another nightmare?” Stiles asks.

“No, thunder just woke me up. I’m going to get some water, you want anything?”

Stiles makes a negative sound, flopping back onto his side, and cuddles the massive pillow to his chest.

When Derek gets back upstairs a few minutes later, Stiles is already asleep again. And he manages to stay that way for the next two hours, through quite a bit more thunder and a good twenty minutes of hail.

At some point he stops cuddling the pillow and starts cuddling Derek instead and Derek makes an annoyed noise, purely for appearances, but doesn’t stop him. Eventually Derek must fall back asleep as well because suddenly his phone alarm is going off and the bed beside him is empty. He tells himself he is not disappointed by the latter fact.

Eventually Derek finds both Stiles, dressed for school, and his father, still in his pajamas, standing outside in the garden.

Stiles looks delighted, while Padraig’s face can’t seem to decide if it wants to be pleased or confused.

“What’s the damage?” Derek yells as he approaches them.

Padraig shrugs, hands on his hips. “That’s the thing, it’s completely fine, take a look.”

And everything _is_ fine. The tomato plants are all upright. The Muscadine vines are still standing. The row of green beans is just as neat and even as they left them. The fig trees still boast a handful of near-ripe fruit and everything is green and leafy, and looks, if anything, even better than it did the day before.

As Derek surveys the area surrounding the garden he understands his father’s confusion. What had been a grassy lawn yesterday is now a muddy swamp-land scattered with downed tree limbs.

“It looks like the storm just completely passed over the garden,” Derek says, testing the ground in front of one of the zucchini plants. It’s damp, but nowhere near as waterlogged as the dirt outside the row, a mere three feet away.

“It’s a Christmas miracle!” Stiles shouts, throwing his hands in the air.

“It’s September,” Derek says.

“It’s a _very early_ Christmas miracle!”

Padraig laughs, shaking his head. “Whatever it is, I’m grateful for it. It’s rare to have this much growth so late in the season, it’d have been a shame to see it ruined.”

He nods back toward the house. “You two need to get ready for school. Any requests for breakfast?”

Stiles snorts, purposely slogging through a puddle.

“Literally the only things left to eat in the kitchen are eggs and cheese.”

“Well,” Padraig says, “I don’t know about you two but I’ve been craving some cheesy eggs.”

“How convenient,” Stiles says.

He picks a few figs and heads back toward the house, eating them as he goes. Derek decides that’s the closest they’re going to get to a balanced meal this morning and follows his example.

***

An hour later, Padraig drops them off at the High School and as they walk across the lawn Derek’s hand falls to what is becoming its customary place on Stiles’ elbow. Stiles tends to not watch where he’s going when he’s in the middle of a rant, and, at the moment, he’s gesturing wildly at a recently hung sign declaring Homecoming Tickets are now on sale.

“The whole thing is just ridiculous,” he says, letting him nudge his around a bike rack. “The dance isn’t for another month and people are already freaking out about it! And the whole voting for king and queen thing is even worse, like we don’t all already know _exactly_ who it’s going to be anyway.”

Derek has to admit that is true. Even as social pariahs, he and Stiles are well aware that Lydia and Jackson, the stereotypical princess/Lacrosse captain senior couple will easily win the titles.

“They aren’t so bad,” Derek says. “Last week one of the sophomore lacrosse players stole my shoes during gym. Jackson brought them back to me the next day and apologized. Said he told the kid he wasn’t welcome on the team if he did anything like it again.”

“Lydia is the same way,” Stiles agrees, “She was on the debate team with Scott last year and made sure no one treated him badly.” He shudders. “Still don’t like them together though.”

“Why?”

“Because. They look like one of those obnoxiously happy couples in adds for erectile dysfunction medication. _No one_ is that perfect.”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek hisses, conscious of a teacher a few feet away from them.

“ _What_? They do.”

He pulls open one of the entry doors, holding it for him to follow, and Derek does, jerking to a stop a few feet inside. Beneath the normal scents of teenagers, paper, and dry erase board markers, there’s a subtle scent of rotting algae lingering in the hallway, overlaid with the smells of chlorine and blood.

Derek’s hand curls around Stiles’ bicep and he hauls him right back out the door.

Padraig’s truck has already left the parking lot and Derek pulls out his cellphone in a fumble of anxious fingers as Stiles complains about being manhandled.

“Hey, jerkwad, you wanna not drag me around like a piece of meat, here? What are you _doing_?”

Padraig answers on the second ring and there must be something telling in the way Derek says, “ _Dad_?” because Stiles goes still.

“What?” Stiles says, moving closer to him, eyes on the weakening flow of students entering the building. “What’s wrong?”

“Dad, there’s a kelpie at the school,” Derek says.

Stiles curls the fingers of one hand into the fabric of Derek’s t-shirt. He swallows and it’s loud enough to hear over Padraig’s cursing on the phone.

“I’m turning around,” Padraig says. “Where are you right now?”

“Front of the school on the steps. I’ve got Stiles with me. What do you want us to do?”

“Meet me back at the curb. Stay on the phone.”

Derek slides his hand down from its grip on Stiles’ forearm to lace their fingers together.

He tugs them toward the carport, phone pressed to his ear and teeth feeling too large in his mouth.

“We’re fine,” Derek says, and he’s not sure whom he’s talking to.

Stiles gives his hand a squeeze in response, his eyes still trained on the school doors as a few late students, oblivious, jog past them.

Padraig’s truck rumbles around the corner and pulls to a stop beside them a moment later and Derek exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding once they’re all inside the cab.

“I called Scott,” Padraig says, putting the vehicle back in gear. “He’s bringing two cars from LCPD and is going to meet us in parking lot behind the football field. Did you see it?”

It takes Derek a moment to realize the question is addressed to him.

“The kelpie? No, but the whole school reeks. Either there’s one still there or was there within the last hour. I could smell blood too.”

Padraig curses again, turning onto the street.

“Once Scott and the police get here I want you two to stay in the truck. One of the officers will stay with you while Scott and I check the building with the others, understand?”

It’s not until Stiles lets go of Derek’s hand, that Derek realizes he’s been holding it the whole time. Derek curls his now free fingers into the denim of his jeans, watching as Stiles pulls his backpack from the floorboard.

He unzips it and extracts what looks to be a travel bathroom bag, the kind that can be hung up, from one of the side pockets. Derek makes an inquisitive noise as Stiles unrolls it on his lap. Then he sneezes.

Padraig sneezes too as he puts the truck in park at the edge of the football field.

“What _is_ that?” Padraig says.

Stiles doesn’t answer, collecting little glass vials from various pouches. They are sealed with wax and cork stoppers and they clink together in his hands as he continues down the row of pockets. He separates the vials into two groups, securing them with a pair of rubber bands, and hands them to Padraig.

“Give these to Scott,” he says, offering him the first group, all stopped with wax, “Tell him these are reds.”

The second group, stopped with cork, is placed in his other hand. “These are blues. He’ll know what to do with them.”

Padraig studies Stiles for a moment, then the flasks in his hands. “Reds and blues,” he repeats, holding up the corresponding groups.

“Yes,” he agrees, and proffers a third rubber band bound bundle to him. This one appears to be a collection of injection needles, individually wrapped in plastic, innocuous in his cupped palm.

Padraig takes them from Stiles as well, the solemnity of his expression somewhat lessened by a second sneeze.

Derek rolls down the passenger window. “Seriously,” he says, “what is that stuff?”

“Venom, mostly,” Stiles answers, folding the bag back up. “Reds incapacitate with pain and paralysis. Blues render unconscious.”

“ _Venom_?” Derek repeats.

“Yeah,” he laughs, somewhat shakily. “Don’t worry. Penelope wasn’t involved in the process. Reds and blues come from snakes only.”

“What a relief,” Derek answers dryly. “Wait, does that mean tarantulas are poisonous?”

“Only a _little_.”

Sirens start to wail in the distance and Padraig gets out of the truck, transferring Stiles’ bundles to his pockets as Scott’s Honda swerves into the parking lot, quickly followed by two of the new charger squad cars.

Scott slams the door, running to the truck, and leans in the passenger window, eyes appraising Stiles in the middle of the bench seat. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine.”

“Do you have—“

“Gave them to Padraig already.”

“Awesome. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Scott jogs around to where Padraig is already speaking with four officers. A moment later the two wolves and three of the men head into the building.

Derek gives the fourth officer, ostensibly left behind to protect them, an assessing glance. The man can’t be a day over twenty and is flipping his nightstick anxiously in one hand. When the lockdown siren from the school goes off he fumbles the stick and has to go chasing after it as it rolls toward the field.

Derek raises an eyebrow at Stiles and he snorts.

“Don’t worry,” Stiles says, “If shit goes down, I’ll protect you.”

“Oh good. I’m feeling very reassured.”

They make it twenty-eight minutes before the waiting becomes unbearable.

“Can you tell what’s _happening_ in there?” Stiles asks, one knee bouncing up and down.

“No.” Derek answers. “My senses haven’t fully manifested yet. My sense of smell is getting there, but my hearing is only a little bit better than yours is and,” he pauses to push up his glasses, looking annoyed. “My eyesight is worse.”

“I meant to ask about that,” he says. “When you shift can you see better or do you like, run into trees without your glasses? Because dude,” he taps the thick edge of one lens. “Your prescription is _bad_.”

Derek sighs. “Sometimes I run into trees,” he admits.

Stiles just stares at him for a moment before beaming. “That probably the most adorable thing I have ever heard. Please let me watch sometime.”

“No.”

“Puh- _lease_? With a cherry on top?”

“Garnishing your please with fruit will have no effect on my answer.”

Stiles rolls his eyes.

“You’re being awfully _dog_ matic about this.”

“Was that supposed to be a pun?” he asks.

“It was. As I’m sure you’re a- _were_.”

Derek elects to ignore him.

“I really don’t understand this issue you have with puns,” he says, knee bouncing even faster.

“Puns are illogical,” Derek mutters.

“Thanks, Mr. Spock.”

Derek turns his attention from the school to Stiles. “Mr. what?”

“Spock.”

He continues to look blank and Stiles gasps in what may or may not be pretend horror.

“You don’t know who Spock is? Kirk? Sulu? Uhura? _The Enterprise_? Do they not have awesome space adventures in Colorado?”

“Oh. Is this a Star Wars thing?”

Stiles nearly shrieks and the cop outside drops his nightstick again.

“Star _Trek_ ,” he says. “Its Star _Trek_ you _uncultured swine_. I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”

“A tragedy,” Derek says and Stiles sticks out his tongue.

“We’re watching them,” Stiles informs him. “The new movies and the original series, in its entirety. Prepare to have your mind blown—Oh, shit, they’re coming back.”

Derek spins to face the school again as three police officers, followed by Padraig and Scott, exit through the gym doors and make their way across the parking lot. Scott is holding something in one hand and—

“Is that an _ARM_?” Stiles says, and yes, it does indeed appear that Scott is holding a severed arm.

“Where did it _come_ from?” Stiles whisper-shouts at Derek.

“I’d be more interested in where the rest of the person is,” Derek mutters back.

Padraig opens the driver’s side door and they tumble out as the adults join them.

“So?” Stiles says.

Scott holds up his gloved right hand, the one clutching the severed limb.

“No kelpie. Found this in your locker though.”

“Okay one, _ew_. Two, that doesn’t even make any _sense_. Is it threatening me? I mean, I’m assuming. But whose arm is that? And why was it _in my locker_. _Shit._ ”

Scott leans against one of the squad cars as an officer rummages in the trunk.

“Believe me, I’m just as lost as you are,” he says.

“Could you track it?” Derek asks, crossing his arms and trying not to choke on the scent of rotting flesh.

“No,” Scott says. “It came and left in a car parked outside the east doors. Which, those are the doors the janitorial staff use so the school has been open since 5am.”

“Kelpies are _driving cars_ now?” Stiles says, “Since _when_?”

“ _I don’t know_ ,” Scott groans. “I told you, I’m lost.”

“Well fat lot of good you and your wolfy senses are,” Stiles mutters.

“Watch, it,” Scott says, flopping the severed appendage in his direction. “I’m _armed_.”

Derek is beginning to see where Stiles gets his humor.

Stiles makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. “That wasn’t funny.”

“Hey Scott,” one of the officers says, holding open an evidence bag with a grin, “I could really use _a hand_.”

“How fortuitous,” he answers, “it’s seems I’ve got an extra one right here.”

“Our law enforcement, ladies and gentleman,” Stiles says to Derek. “I dunno about you, but I’ll sure sleep sounder tonight knowing they’re protecting our streets.”

The fourth cop drops his nightstick again and for a moment neither of them say anything. Stiles lips curl, teeth unsuccessfully trying to hold them down. Derek attempts to frown but is having similar difficulties with his face. He nudges Stiles. Stiles nudges him back. There’s a severed arm and an imminent threat and a police officer chasing his rolling nightstick and the situation is so entirely absurd that Derek bursts out laughing. Stiles joins him a moment later and eventually Padraig has to drop a hand on each of their necks and lead them back to the truck because they can’t seem to stop.

“Get a hold of yourselves,” he says, but he’s smiling, particularly at Derek.

“You’re both excused for the rest of the day. We’re all going back to the house. Scott too. We need to start talking about safety measures.”

That sobers them relatively quickly.

The safety measures aren’t all that different from the way things are already. Basically Stiles can never be left alone. Stiles argues that Scott could be a target as well, and, in order to placate him, Scott agrees to the new protocol as well. As a result, lunch is a relatively silent and grumpy affair. Scott takes a nap on the sofa in the afternoon while Padraig edits owl film at the kitchen table. Derek and Stiles use the four-wheeler to check on all the now-flying owlets. At 6pm Scott eats the last of the eggs from the refrigerator and Padraig volunteers to ride with him to the station for his shift. Scott tries to say no, but Stiles won’t let him.

“I can drive to the station by myself,” Scott says. “It’s not like they’re going to attack me at a stoplight.”

“But you can’t be alone,” Stiles says, “No matter what. Remember? Besides. Apparently kelpies are driving now. They _might_ attack you a stoplight.”

After an irritated hug and stilted “I love you”s are exchanged between the siblings, the adults leave.

Derek watches the whole thing with more than a little confusion.

Once the taillights are no longer visible from the living room window, Stiles moves into the kitchen and orders a pizza before collapsing beside Derek on the couch. He takes up more space than someone his size should. His limbs are always everywhere and despite trying to be annoyed, derek only manages to find it sort of endearing.

“Why do you and your brother do that?” Derek asks.

Stiles shifts so his knees are hooked over Derek’s lap.

“What?”

“You always say you love each other before leaving. Even if you’re angry.”

“Oh. That.”

It takes Stiles so long to respond that Derek is beginning to think he has no intention of answering at all.

“We didn’t have a chance to say goodbye. The day our family was killed. And neither of us can remember the last thing we said to our parents or siblings. We don’t know if it was something—If it was something nice or bad or” he shrugs, swallowing. “I guess neither of us want that to happen again.”

“Oh,” Derek says, understanding. “You want to be certain. Just in case.”

“Yeah.”

Derek curls one hand around Stiles’ ankle, unsure of what to offer in the silence.

“Want to play monopoly?”

Stiles sighs. “You really need to get a TV.”

***

Something changes after that.

He’s not sure what it is, but it’s definitely something. As they eat their pizza and get greasy fingerprints on colorful money, he can’t help but feel that Stiles is no longer a guest in his territory, but more of something that belongs in it. Rightfully. The feeling is both a relief and a discomfort. Derek is finding he must remind himself Stiles is not pack on a disturbingly frequent basis.

“You know,” he says as they’re brushing their teeth that night. “My bed is a whole lot more comfortable than the air mattress.

Stiles closes the mirrored medicine cabinet door with more force than necessary.

“It’s not like I’m forcing you to sleep on it with me.”

“No, that’s not—”

Derek spits into the sink and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I’m saying we could sleep in my room, instead. If you wanted.”

“You—oh. Uh. Yes? I mean, if you’re sure. I don’t want to like, mess with your space or anything. Get my human-ness on all your stuff.”

Derek snorts. “The whole house smells like you. My room is starting to just by proximity anyway.”

“Well, in that case, lead me to your quarters, good sir.”

Derek raises an eyebrow and Stiles gives him a mock curtsy, holding the ends of his too-big pajama shirt out to either side.

When Derek bows and offers Stiles his arm, Stiles grins, surprised, and takes it with a flourish, allowing Derek to escort him to the room.

“Ah yes, the royal bedchamber,” Stiles says, letting go of Derek’s elbow and spinning to consider the room once they’re inside.

Three of the four walls are covered in bookshelves from floor to slanted ceiling. The fourth hosts a full bed beneath the circular window in the eaves of the roof. There are exposed wooden support beams on the ceiling and Stiles reaches up to nudge a mobile of the solar system hanging from one.

“I like it. But your mobile is missing Pluto.”

“Pluto isn’t a planet,” Derek says.

Stiles gasps in mock dismay. “ _You take that back_.”

Derek rolls his eyes.

Stiles wanders around the room, indiscriminately touching things, before jumping onto the bed and burrowing into the nest of quilts, looking annoyingly at ease. Derek flips off the light before following him, settling on the opposite side of the mattress.

“No playing psychiatrist tonight,” Derek says. “I just want—I just want to sleep.“

“Okay,” Stiles says, rolling so his back is to Derek. “I’m pretty wiped out anyway.”

“Okay.”

Derek shifts as the air conditioner cuts on and it sounds almost like the rain on the roof had the night before.

He falls asleep feeling strangely reassured by the human next to him.

He doesn’t dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens (Finally).
> 
> In other news I may or may not be around next week to post an update. I am going into The Wild to visit relatives and wifi is basically akin to sorcery there. So. The good news is I should get quite a bit of writing done since there will be little else to do (hopefully I'll finish this story and begin work on part 2 of my Sherlock series). See you...soon!


	9. Chapter 9

A week passes and nothing happens.

_Nothing._

No kelpie sightings. No nightmares. No more body parts left in lockers. Not even a vaguely supernatural story in the news.

Scott drops Stiles off at the Hale’s house Sunday afternoon and Padraig, as has become usual, is waiting for them on the porch, in wolf form.

He has taken to riding with Scott to the station and then running back home and, unlike Derek, doesn’t seem to mind if people see him. If anything, he appears to enjoy when people stare. Which makes sense, Stiles thinks, because Padraig’s wolf is gorgeous. He’s a Grey Wolf with a white belly and black-tipped silver coat and Scott, a Red Wolf, would probably be laughably small compared to him.

When Stiles gets out of the passenger seat Padraig bounds forward to take his place, pulling the door closed with a massive paw and sticking his head out the open window.

Stiles shoulders his backpack and reminds himself to vacuum the car at some point because the amount of shedding going on is starting to become a problem, and goes inside to find Derek. Once he’s closed the door and dropped his stuff in the hall, however, he pauses, because it sounds like there’s a battle going on in the kitchen. Over the clanking of metal he can hear the quiet murmur of cursing, or, at least, Derek’s version of cursing, which involves a lot of growling and putting the word “stupid” in front of things.

Stiles enters the kitchen with no small amount of trepidation and has to physically restrain himself from laughing because the room is a disaster area.

There’s eggshell bits and spilled milk and a fine coating of white on everything, including Derek. It looks like he’s gone a few rounds with a bag of flour and Stiles isn’t entirely sure who the victor was.

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Derek says seriously, somewhat forlornly.

And Stiles does laugh then because he can’t help it.

Derek takes off his smudged glasses, trying to clean them on his equally dirty shirt, and sighs.

“I wanted to make you a cake,” he says, glaring first at the ingredients strewn across the counters, and then at his glasses. “The internet made it sound easy.”

“The internet lies. Why don’t I help?” Stiles asks.

“It was supposed to be a _surprise_. Baking your own surprise cake defeats the purpose.”

“Pretty sure the purpose of baking a cake is the subsequent ability to _eat_ cake,” Stiles says, kicking off his shoes. “Chill, I’m just happy you wanted to make me something.”

He takes Derek’s glasses, using the hem of his shirt to wipe them clean before settling them back on Derek’s flour-speckled nose.

“Now stop sulking. You can make it up to me on Friday.”

“What’s Friday?” Derek asks, still sulking.

“Milking day!”

Derek’s eyebrows, already furrowed, pull down even lower. “What’s milking day?”

“The happy monthly occasion wherein I extract venom from eleven different poisonous snakes in one afternoon without dying. And you, sir, have the honor of being allowed to assist me this time.”

Stiles makes jazz fingers.

Derek looks appalled.

“No.”

Stiles pushes him out of the way, studying the recipe on Padraig’s laptop, and sighs.

“Fine. But you and Padraig still have to take me to the house after school. And one of you needs to wait with me while I do it. Just in case. I’ve never been bit before but there’s a first time for everything.”

“What happens if you get bit?” Derek asks, handing Stiles the carton of eggs he’s pointing at.

“I’ve got antivenin for all the species I’m working with. I’d give myself the first dose and then get to a hospital as quickly as possible.”

“And you do this _every month_?!”

“Yeah. It’s good money, actually. Half the venom I sell online to people making antivenin, the other half I use myself or sell to fae and humans like me who need a leg up in the supernatural world.”

He starts cracking eggs into a bowl and Derek brings him a whisk, still looking horrified.

“How long have you been doing this?”

“It was my Aunt’s business before. She taught me. I started my own snake collection when I was thirteen and since she died I’ve taken over her animals as well as her clients. Can you hand me the milk?”

Derek stops asking questions, probably because he isn’t liking the answers.

They’re sliding cake batter into the oven when the back door is wrenched open and Padraig yells, “ _Stiles_?!” in a way that means _something is happening, this is not a drill, repeat, this is not a drill._

The oven slams shut and they slide in tandem around the corner into the living room, socks losing purchase on the hardwood floor.

Padraig is wearing the jeans and plaid shirt he leaves on the back porch for when he returns home, his feet bare, hair a mess.

He stares at Stiles for a moment in the intense and vaguely frightening way he stares at population charts of endangered bird species.

“Stiles,” he says, slightly calmer now. “What do you know about your birth parents?”

“My—nothing,” Stiles answers, baffled. “They died in a car accident when I was a couple months old. That’s it.”

“Are you—“ Padraig takes a breath. “Are you certain they were human?”

Stiles’ mouth drops open. “Uh, yeah. Pretty sure. Why?”

“Because,” Padraig points toward the other side of the house. “The plants in the garden are budding.”

“What?”

“There’s new growth on nearly every bit of produce in that plot that _was not there_ an hour ago. And its season already lasted a full month longer than it was supposed to. _Summer_ gardens do not bud for a second time in September, Stiles, not unless they’re being helped.”

“Helped,” Derek repeats. “Helped how?”

“By something non-human.”

“But—“ Stiles shakes his head. “I mean, I didn’t do anything! How do you know it’s because of _me_?”

Padraig raises an eyebrow. “I saw a difference in the garden _three days_ after you started working in it. And remember the hailstorm last week? How it mysteriously passed over that one particular spot of land? The ground didn’t even get _muddy_.”

“Well yeah, but that’s not—“

Also,” Padraig continues, looking slightly annoyed, “All the plants except for the okra are budding. The okra, interestingly enough, is all dead.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Oh, shit.”

***

“I don’t understand,” Derek says a few minutes later. They’re all sitting in the living room, the wolves staring at Stiles like he’s a puzzle to crack.

“He _smells_ human,” Derek continues. “Shouldn’t we be able to tell if he isn’t?”

“No,” Padraig answers. “Fae are indistinguishable from humans until they manifest sometime during or after puberty.”

“Is that what we’re thinking I am?” Stiles asks, somewhat hysterically, “Fae?”

“Makes sense,” Padraig answers. “They hit physical maturity at a later age than humans, usually around sixteen or seventeen, which could explain your appearance.”

“My appear— _Hey_.”

“Additionally,” Padraig continues, ignoring him. “All Fae are elementals, but each usually has a particular strength. Like, for example, earth.” He nods in the general direction of the garden.

“Great. So my super power is growing tomatoes. Just what I always wanted.”

Padraig’s eyes go yellow with annoyance and Stiles bites his lip.

“What’s _concerning_ is the fact that you haven’t manifested in a way that is outwardly tangible and yet you’re already showing a significant amount of sway over two different elements. That has dangerous implications.”

“I’m not sure I’m following you.”

“We can’t tell that you’re anything but human,” Padraig says, “and you’re already able to do things many adult fae would struggle with barring the use of runes. This means you’ll most likely be quite powerful.”

“Okay. So, not just tomato growing, then?”

“Decidedly not.”

“Well, I’m not really seeing a downside here.”

Padraig sighs. “If I were to ask you to divert another hail storm, or worse, _create_ one, could you do it?”

“No? I mean. I didn’t even know I was doing it. Much less _how_ I was doing it.”

“Right. And when you begin to manifest you will have twenty times the influence you’re currently exhibiting and an equal inability to control it. Do you see the problem?”

“Oh. Oh damn. Okay. This is bad.”

Stiles stares hard at his hands, pressing them palm to palm, and tries to breathe. There’s dirt under his fingernails. Probably dirt from the garden when he’d been working in it yesterday. The garden which is now blooming out of season. Which is apparently the least of his worries. Shit.

“I think—“ he stands abruptly. “I need to— I’ll be right back.”

He runs up the stairs, considers the draw of Derek’s bed before choosing the bathroom instead and moves to sit on the edge of the tub, elbows on knees, hands on the back of his head. Breathing is becoming more difficult.

“Stiles?”

He can hear Derek coming up the stairs. He knows it’s him because he knows the way Derek’s feet sound, which is actually kind of weird, if he really thinks about it.

“ _Stiles_?!”

Derek’s voice is suddenly louder and Stiles can’t remember if he closed the bathroom door or not. When he looks up to check everything tips sideways.

He slides from the edge of tub to the floor as the edges of his vision start to go blurry.

“Stiles,” Derek says, and between one blink and the next he’s suddenly crouched in front of him.

“You’re having a panic attack,” Derek says.

“No shit, Sherlock,” he answers.

It doesn’t sound right when his mouth moves.

“Hey.”

Stiles feels Derek take one of his hands. Feels Derek press his palm against Derek’s chest.

“Hey, you feel me breathing?” Derek asks. “Try and breathe with me, okay?”

Stiles tries.

“That was good, do it again alright? With me,” Derek takes a slow steady inhale and he attempts to mirror it.

“Awesome. Perfect. Again.”

He gasps his way through another breath and the tightness in his chest starts to loosen.

“Good, another one. Ready?”

He closes his eyes and focuses on breathing with Derek and not the horrible rasping noise of the actual breathing itself.

After several more minutes he slumps forward and Derek lets him. Derek has been careful not to touch anything aside from Stile’s hand resting on his chest up until that point and now, with permission, he pulls him into a loose hug.

“Better?” Derek asks.

“Yeah. Sorry. It’s been forever since I had a panic attack.”

“This wasn’t the first time?”

“Nah. I used to get them when I was little. Hazard of being a puny human in a werewolf family. Always someone or something to worry about.”

Stiles pauses. “Well. I guess not human.”

“Hey. We’ve got time to figure this out. My dad called Scott. He’s on his way here.”

“Okay.”

“Tired?” Derek asks.

Stiles nods against his neck.

“Figured. You wanna take a nap?”

“Yeah.”

Stiles pushes away from Derek, but doesn’t protest when he helps him up, keeping a steadying hand wrapped around his elbow until he’s safely on the bed.

“You want me to stay?” Derek asks and Stiles answers “no,” a little too quickly to be believed.

“Well,” Derek says, after considering his for a moment. “Tough luck.”

Stiles’ breathing gets slower by increments, but doesn’t ever even in sleep and when they hear the crunch of Scott’s car on the gravel driveway, Stiles rolls to face Derek.

“Who do you know that gets panic attacks?” Stiles asks.

“Pardon?”

Stiles nods toward the bathroom. “That was like, a textbook perfect reaction. You didn’t freak out. You didn’t try and touch me or move me. You just got me to breathe with you. And then you took me somewhere safe and quiet to recover. You’ve done this before.”

“No, actually,” Derek admits. “First time on this particular side of the equation.”

It takes Stiles a moment to understand.

“Oh, but—wait—werewolves can get panic attacks?”

“Apparently. I just did what my dad does for me.”

“Huh. Well, nicely done, I guess. How often do you get them?”

Derek pushes his glasses up the bridge of nose and rolls onto his back. “Not often, anymore. But when I got home, after I was taken, I didn’t—little things would set me off. I couldn’t really function. I was just always at the point, where you can feel the…“ he holds one hand to his chest, curling his fingers into the fabric of his t-shirt. “I’d have four or five attacks a day. And then I’d go to sleep and get them from the nightmares. That’s why my dad moved us here. I think it was sort of his last resort.”

Derek’s fingers go slack and Stiles watched as his hand slides off his chest and back to the bed. “Worked though. It’s been two months since I’ve had one.”

“And six days since a nightmare,” Stiles reminds him.

“That too. I think that might have less to do with location and more to do with company, though,” he admits.

Stiles smiles at the ceiling and they listen to footsteps on the porch, then the soft murmur of voices downstairs as Padraig greets Scott.

“Derek,” Stiles says, “can you promise me something?”

Derek turns to face him, pushing at his glasses again. “What?”

“If I—if your dad is right, and I start—“ he gestures wordlessly for a moment before making a frustrated noise. He tries to come at the issue from another angle.

“My Aunt was fae and she had near perfect control, okay? Like, she really knew what she was doing. But even s _he_ would slip up sometimes, when she was really happy or sad or angry. One time she got in this terrible argument with my mom and she accidently blew out all the light bulbs in the house. It started an electrical fire that burnt down half the dining room before she was able to put it out. And she had _control_.”

Stiles rubs absently at his left wrist, thumb digging into the tendons. “If I lose it you need to stop me from doing something bad like that, okay? I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Hey. Quit.”

Derek pulls Stiles’ fingers away from his arm. “We’ll figure this out. We will find someone who can help teach you how to be…whatever you are.”

“Dude, there’s only like three thousand fae left in the world. And as far as I know they all get pretty antsy about leaving whatever territory they’ve settled into. And they have trust issues. And don’t like talking to strangers. Especially strangers of the non-human variety.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Derek repeats. “Worst case we’ll take a trip to the Alexandria library, make copies of all the information we can find and figure out how to train you ourselves. We’re both of above-average intelligence. It shouldn’t be that hard.”

“Right. Two supernatural teenagers messing with archaic magic. No big deal.”

“Exactly.”

He sighs. “Promise me, though, alright? Just in case.”

“I don’t—“

“Please.”

Derek worries his bottom lip against his teeth. “Okay.”

Stiles solemnly extends one hand to him, pinky finger up, the rest curled into a fist.

Derek returns the gesture without laughing.

“Promise?” he says.

“Promise,” Derek agrees.

They go downstairs a few minutes later and Scott hugs Stiles so long he starts to fidget.

“Come on, Scott,” he mutters into his shoulder, “it’s not a big deal.”

“It’s a huge deal,” he says, cheek pressed to the top of Stiles’ head. “My baby brother is basically a wizard.”

Stiles extracts himself from Scott’s crushing grip and attempts to flatten his hair back into some semblance of order.

“Wizards don’t exist. And according to Aunt C, ‘shaman’ is probably most accurate, if we’re labeling things. Speaking of, do you think—“

Stiles presses his palms together and Derek subtly moves closer, not touching, but near enough behind Stiles that he can feel the heat of him.

“Do you think she might have been my birth mother?” Stiles asks, and Scott shares a brief cautious look with Padraig. “I don’t know. That was my first thought too and—I mean, it’s possible. She always treated you different than the rest of us. And when you were twelve, you remember that fight she and mom had, when she set half the house on fire?”

Stiles glances over his shoulder at Derek. “Yeah, actually, we were just talking about that.”

“They were arguing about you that night. About the stuff she was teaching you. Mom thought you were still too young and Aunt C kept saying it was her decision to make. The fire started when Mom said you were her child, not Aunt C’s.”

Stiles doesn’t realize he’s leaned back against Derek until one of Derek’s hands moves to steady him.

“Okay. Okay so Aunt C was probably my biological mom. Great. Why would they lie though? Why would—that doesn’t make any _sense_.”

Derek’s grip tightens on his arm and he takes a conscious breath.

“Fae children are especially vulnerable,” Padraig says, “being adopted into a pack of wolves, telling everyone you were human, was probably the safest way you could have been raised.”

“Yeah. Super safe. Seeing how they’re all _dead_ now.”

“Stiles,” Scott says sharply.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

Scott sighs. “I’ve already called dad’s family in New Mexico. Aunt C’s twin sister, Teagan, is the Mage for the Sawtooth pack there. The alpha promised to contact her tomorrow and see if she’ll be willing to speak to us.”

“I—“ Stiles pauses, head tipped to one side. “We met her once, remember? That year when like six different packs gathered in Taos on neutral ground for Christmas. We went skiing.”

Stiles studies the backs of his hands, then his open palms. “She had rings of tattoos around all her fingers. She could catch snowflakes and they wouldn’t melt in her hands.”

“Yeah,” Scott says, looking lost. “I remember.”

“You think she’ll—“ Stiles gestures wordlessly. _Care_ , he thinks, _do you think she’ll care_.

“I don’t know,” Scott moves toward the breakfast bar, rubbing his knuckles into one eye. “No use worrying about it now, though. We’ll find out tomorrow.”

Stiles considers the exhausted slump of Scott’s shoulders and wishes for a moment that he’d hugged him longer. Scott looks like a kid playing dress up in his BHPD uniform.

“You’re going to be late for your shift,” Stiles says, nodding toward the clock on the oven.

“I’m not going.”

“Scott. Come on. You just said there’s nothing we can do now anyway.”

Padraig catches his eye and shakes his head minutely. “Perhaps,” the older man says, “playing hooky tonight might be in everyone’s best interest. We can all have a quiet night in. Dinner and good company and a full night’s sleep.”

“There’s cake in the oven,” Derek volunteers.

“I—yeah. That would be fun. Do we have anything else to eat?” Stiles asks.

At that, Padraig looks stymied.

“Scott and I will go get hamburgers,” he decides.

“Double curly fries,” Derek says and Stiles grins.

“Cool.” Scott starts forward like he wants to say something, or maybe just hug Stiles again, but he doesn’t. Instead he stops, eyes meeting Padraig’s for a moment.

“Well,” he says. “Hamburgers. Right. We’ll be back in a little bit, I guess.” Scott looks at Stiles in a way that makes his stomach hurt. “Love you.” He says.

“Love you too.”

Stiles and Derek watch as the adults share another look and then move into the hallway.

“Do you like monopoly?” Padraig asks as he gathers his keys. “We can all play after dinner, if you’d like.”

“No way,” Scott says. “Stiles cheats.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens!
> 
> The good news is I was not trampled by cattle nor eaten by a bear over the Thanksgiving holiday. I did, however, contract pneumonia, which left me quite miserable and completely incapable of focusing on writing. I'm still recovering, and hopefully will be able to make up for lost time over the Christmas holiday. Thanks for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

Teagan Moreno agrees to meet with them the following week. Which is good, because when they all wake up from their impromptu sleepover at the Hale household the next morning, there’s a new tree growing outside the kitchen window. It’s nearly six feet tall, leaves bright and new and impossibly green. A confused, but pleased robin sits in its branches and sings as the sun rises.

Once Padraig points out the new arboreal addition they all stare at Stiles until he pushes away the piece of leftover cake he’s been eating for breakfast and drops his head onto folded arms.

“Derek was complaining about the sun, yesterday,” Stiles mumbles. “He said he wished there were curtains on the window because the glare was always getting in his eyes when he was trying to do homework at the table.”

“So, what,” Scott says, “you grew a _tree_ for him instead?”

“Not _intentionally_ ,” Stiles answers.

“There is a Walmart literally ten minutes away. Curtains are twenty dollars.”

“I _know_.”

Scott looks exasperated while Derek smiles, somewhat smugly, into his glass of orange juice.

“I think it’s nice,” Derek says.

Stiles gives him a fist bump and he remains smug for the rest of the morning.

Padraig and Scott continue to share the sorts of looks his parents used to utilize when they were keeping secrets.

***

When school gets out that afternoon, Padraig and Scott pick Derek and Stiles up together in Scott’s Honda and explain that Teagan is coming to Beacon Hills the following Thursday. She’s bringing one wolf from the Sawtooth pack with her, and Padraig has offered the barn he’s been refurbishing as a place to house them for the visit.

“But the barn is like, not even close to being finished,” Stiles protests.

“Exactly,” Scott says. “We’ve been back and forth to Home Depot all day. We’ll all be working on getting it ready for the next week. Starting tonight.”

“Please tell me there was a grocery trip in there somewhere as well because we were down to cake and juice at breakfast this morning,” Stiles says.

Padraig and Scott both wince in the front seat.

“Knew we were forgetting something,” Scott mutters.

“Stiles and I can go,” Derek offers, glancing at Padraig in the review mirror. “If that’s okay.”

“That’s actually an excellent idea,” Padraig says. “You can cook dinner as well, since you’ve volunteered.”

Scott glances toward the back seat, frowning. “Derek can drive?” he asks.

“Got his license last week,” Padraig agrees proudly.

“ _What_?” Stiles shouts, punching Derek in the shoulder. “ _When_? And you didn’t _tell_ me? Wait—you’re _sixteen_?”

Derek rubs at his arm, smiling shyly at his outraged expression. “Yeah. My birthday was in August. It just took a while to get the paperwork sorted since I’m from out of state.”

“You—I cannot _believe_ you,” Stiles says, hitting him again.

“Scott,” Padraig says, ignoring the impromptu slap-fight that has broken out in the back seat. “Do you mind if they use your car? We might need the truck for hauling lumber.”

Scott purses his lips. “Can the kid _actually_ drive?”

“Admirably. Don’t ask him to parallel park though.”

“Well, parallel parking isn’t exactly a concern at the Walmart. I think he’ll be okay.”

“A valid point.”

Stiles finishes his homework before Derek does and spends twenty minutes in the garden picking a new crop of green beans. The fig trees are already heavy with nearly-ripe fruit again and he’s actually a little bit worried about what they’re going to do with them all. He’d spent his study hall period that day in the library googling how to can fruits and vegetables. Considering the current progress of the magical garden he’ll probably be able to stock them with enough canned produce to last most of the winter.

Eventually Derek joins him and they hike across what had been a portion of the feed-corn field to the barn.

Scott and Padraig are standing inside, in the center of what looks to be half of home depot’s home improvement section, arguing amiably and slapping at mosquitos.

Derek wanders into what had once been a tack-room, but is now beginning to take shape as a bathroom. There’s raccoon footprints in the sawdust at the bottom of the plastic-wrapped tub.

“Plumbing first,” Padraig is saying. “Then the roof, then the loft, then electrical.”

“I dunno,” Scott answers, “I just feel like, logically, we should probably focus on the huge-ass hole in the ceiling first.”

“As opposed to the huge _ass-hole_ in the tack-room?” Stiles says cheerfully.

“ _Hey_ ,” Derek yells.

Padraig laughs. “Still mad at him about the license thing?”

“Only a lot,” Stiles agrees.

Derek comes back around the corner, scowling, and Scott tosses him the keys to the Honda.

Padraig hands Derek a roll of bills. “Call when you get there and call when you leave.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t speed. And if it’s dark when you’re heading back use your headlights and watch for deer.”

“Dad, I know.”

“Be safe,” Scott adds, and Stiles salutes him.

“Got it. Love you, see you later.”

“Love you too.”

Grocery shopping with Stiles is unlike anything Derek has ever experienced before.

Derek pushes the cart while Stiles stands on the front of it, one hand behind him, holding on to the basket, the other alternately shading his eyes and pointing as he directs Derek with dramatic piratical exclamations like, “Avast! Here be the cheese sticks,” “weigh anchor, we’ve passed the peanut butter,” and “Hotdogs off the starboard bow!”

Derek realizes that it’s the first time he’s ever been in the store when people aren’t actively staring at him and it’s because they’re too busy staring at Stiles.

It’s not until they’re at the check-out counter that it occurs to him Stiles may have been doing it on purpose for that exact reason.

By the time they make it back out to the parking lot, the sun has gone down and the breeze has an inviting bite of coolness to it. They’re loading paper bags into the trunk when the rotting algae-chlorine smell hits Derek on an upwind draft of air.

“Stiles,” he says sharply, “get in the car.”

Stiles freezes, holding a gallon of milk in each hand, before depositing them quickly in the trunk and jogging for the passenger side door.

Before he can open it, however, the shadows move and there’s a kelpie standing under the streetlight two feet in front of the car grill.

It looks like a normal teenage girl, if a rather soggy one, wearing a nondescript green dress. Her wet, nearly waist-length hair, is dripping, and Derek is thrown for a moment, at how human it looks. When it speaks, however, the illusion is broken. Because Derek has seen some humans with pretty nasty teeth, but none with near-translucent needle-sharp ones.

“Give the fae to me,” it says.

Stiles meets Derek’s eyes over the roof of the car, fingers curled around the passenger door handle, and Derek slowly starts to toe off his right shoe.

“I’m standing _right_ here,” Stiles says as Derek uses his bare right foot to free his left. “And can you not do the dramatic posturing thing, because we’ve got ice cream that’s going to melt.”

The kelpie frowns.

It returns its attention to Derek, crossing its arms and looking strangely like a petulant child. “Give Caesar what is Caesar’s.”

Derek makes a disgusted noise, half because the reference is horrible and half to mask the sound of his hands, which are currently unbuttoning his pants. “Alright, A, you didn’t even say it right. The quote is ‘render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s and unto God that which is God’s.’ And B, using that doesn’t make any sense in this context. The quote is referring to the relationship between Christianity and secular Roman authority during the taxation resistance in Judea, which, as far as I know, has nothing to do with homicidal mythical creatures and their vendettas against _completely innocent_ fae children.”

He’s managed to wiggle his pants halfway down his hips and wonders if he can get his glasses off without the thing noticing. Probably not.

The kelpie’s frown deepens.

“If you know what he is,” it says, “then you know he is not innocent.”

“Well, _whatever_ he is, he’s under Hale protection.”

“Hales have no jurisdiction here,” the Kelpie says, stamping one foot.

He almost laughs at the immature gesture.

“I have land claim,” he answers, “twenty-three square miles. It’s enough to call a territory.“

“You are a _juvenile_.”

“I speak for my father. Also, you’re looking pretty wet behind the ears yourself. You sure you’re old enough to be threatening people?”

Stiles lets out a stifled hiccup of a laugh because, yes, Derek actually just made a pun. Clearly Stiles is a bad influence.

“Enough,” the Kelpie says, “if you will not give him to me, I will _take_ him.”

Derek has just enough warning to haul his shirt over his head before leaping forward, only barely managing to wriggle out of his jeans, before he collides, fully shifted, with the kelpie.

As fights go it’s actually not that dramatic. He’s bigger, especially shifted, than it is and, since they’re not it water, he already has the upper hand. The kelpie manages to get it’s teeth into the side of his face at one point and when he releases the grip he has on it’s throat as a result, it stumbles back a few paces and abruptly turns, shifts, and flees back into the woods surrounding the parking lot.

Derek shakes the blood out of his eyes and growls, debating chasing it, before discarding the idea.

When he turns back to face Stiles, Stiles is holding a pretty massive knife in one hand and there’s an equally large grin on his face. The combination is more than a little disconcerting.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Stiles says, gesturing at him. “What even _are_ you?!”

Derek twitches, shifting back with an annoyed roll of his neck.

“Werewolf,” he mumbles around a mouthful of too-many teeth.

“Thanks, smartass,” Stiles answers. “But that sure didn’t look like any wolf _I’m_ familiar with.”

“I’m a maned wolf. They’re native to Brazil. I told you my mom and dad had problems conceiving because of the genetic differences in their lycanthropy.”

Derek still has blood in his eyes and he rubs at his face with the back of one arm, studying the area the kelpie had disappeared into.

“Well yeah, but damn. You’re _gorgeous_. Like, the runway model of werewolves. How do your legs even work? They’re like _stilts_.”

He doesn’t say anything and Stiles flips the knife in his hand, somewhat introspectively. “By the way, I probably could have handled that one. I appreciate the heroics though. Especially the part where you got your nerd on. So hot.”

“Shut up,” Derek says. “Where did that knife come from?”

Stiles folds the blade in a deft movement, leaving it a more compact palm-length, and shoves it in the back pocket of his jeans. “Dude. I’ve been carrying it with me ever since the severed arm event. I’m surprised you couldn’t smell it. Scott’s been complaining all week.”

“Smell it?”

“Copper,” Stiles says distractedly, dropping into a crouch. “Kelpies are allergic to copper. Rots their insides. Scott says the knife smells like old pennies.” He holds something up a moment later. “Hey, I found your glasses. Looks like they’re okay. Nice job on the silent stripping routine, by the way. I’d ask if that’s something you practice but I’m not sure I want to know.”

Derek rolls his eyes, moving forward to take them back, “Gee, thanks.”

Stiles makes a choked noise and Derek glances down at him, hooking the glasses back into place over his ears.

“What?”

“You’re. Uh. You’re kinda naked? And your junk is like, eye-level, so if you could—“Stiles flaps his hands wordlessly at him and Derek jumps backward, covering himself as he sidles toward the other side of car.

“Sorry. Sorry. I’ll just, uh, put my clothes back on now.”

“Probably a good idea, yeah. I mean, not many people at the Walmart tonight, but we wouldn’t want to scar anyone. Anyone _else_ , I mean.”

Stiles clears his throat, getting into the passenger side of the car, as Derek hops on one foot, trying to pull his jeans back on. He ends up tripping over his discarded shoes and loses his glasses again in the process.

When he’s finally dressed he closes the still-open trunk and slides into the driver’s side, starting the car wordlessly.

“Did—“

The tips of Stiles’ ears are red when Derek glances his direction.

“What?”

“Are you going commando today?” Stiles asks, “because I didn’t see any underwear in that whole process. Not that I was watching. Okay that’s a lie, I was totally watching.”

The turn signal is very loud in the following silence.

“Uh. No,” Derek says, “I—forgot to do laundry. Yesterday. So.”

“Hey, no judgment. I’ve heard free-balling is the way to go. I mean—”

“Oh my god, Stiles. Please stop talking.”

“Good plan.”

The drive back home is relatively awkward.

When they get to the house and start unloading the car, Scott and Padraig come in from the barn, grumpy and covered in sawdust.

“Derek,” Padraig yells, kicking off his shoes on the back porch, “I thought I told you to call when you were on your way— _good God_ , what happened to your _face_?”

Padraig moves into the kitchen, catching Derek’s chin in one hand.

“And why is your shirt inside out?” Scott adds, coming up behind him. “…and your fly down.” Scott turns to raise his eyebrows at Stiles. “What were you two _doing_?”

Derek lets out a strangled noise.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, holding up one hand, “you think we— _what_ —decided to have violent sex in the back of your car? At _Walmart_?”

“No,” Scott answers, easily. “We’d be able to smell that.”

“I hate werewolves.” Stiles says. “You are the _actual_ worst.”

“It was a kelpie,” Derek interrupts, glaring sideways at Scott. “I’m surprised you couldn’t smell _that_.”

Stiles offers Derek a fist bump. He rolls his eyes but accepts it.

The adults are abruptly serious.

“What happened?” Padraig asks, wetting a dishtowel from the sink and using it to clean the dried blood from Derek’s face. The wound has already healed, but he lets his father fret over him for a moment while Stiles gives them the rundown on the confrontation.

“So basically,” Stiles says, summary complete, “it was the most pointless, anti-climactic thing ever, and it’s still not making any sense. I mean, it’s so little, and all by itself. It had to know that Derek would kick its ass.”

Scott and Padraig are sharing looks again and Scott’s knuckles are turning white where he’s gripping the countertop.

“Okay. What aren’t you telling us?” Stiles asks.

“Nothing,” Scott lies. “I think Padraig and I need to go—“

“Scott,” Stiles interrupts, arms crossed. “ _What aren’t you telling me_?”

Derek realizes he probably knows what it is.

“There’s a lot of them,” he says, before he has the chance to second-guess himself. “Not just one. And they’re the same pack that attacked your family.”

Padraig whirls to face him, growling, and Derek winces, tipping his head to the side.

“ _What_.”

Stiles’ voice is too quiet. He can’t seem to decide if he wants to stare at Scott or at Derek, and Derek wishes he’d choose Scott because the look of betrayal on Stiles’ face is something he really can’t handle right now.

“Stiles,” Scott says, sounding exhausted. “I didn’t—“

“They’re the _same ones_?”

“Yes,” Scott admits. “It’s the same pack. I only recognized the scent of one of them, but the rest are all blood relatives.”

“And you didn’t tell me this _why_?”

“I didn’t want to scare you.”

“More like you didn’t want to _prepare me_ ,” Stiles pulls the folded blade out of his jeans and slams it onto the countertop. “Dammit, Scott. I’ve been running around with a _copper pocket knife_ thinking I could at least hold my own. It’s a miracle I haven’t been killed yet, if I’m really the one they want.”

He pushes away from the counter, turning to face Derek.

“And _you_ , how long have _you_ known?”

“I—a couple weeks? I didn’t think it was a big deal but—“

“I _hate_ you,” Stiles says, and that hurts, hurts Derek more than it should.

“I cannot believe that _all of you_ knew and at no point did it occur to anyone that I should be let in on this pretty damn important piece of information. That pack is allied with a Mage who made Aunt Claudia look like a child playing with matches and together they took out an _entire family of werewolves_ in less than _six minutes_ and you’ve been letting Derek and I run around _alone_ for two weeks? Tonight was a trap. And it worked. And now we are all royally screwed and if someone had _told_ me, I would have been able to prevent this. But no, you didn’t want to scare me. Congratulations on your total and complete _idiocy_.”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Scott growls.

Padraig closes one hand on Scott’s shoulder. “He has a point,” the older man says lowly, “though I don’t understand what you mean by trap. How is what happened tonight a problem?”

“The kelpie bit Derek. Which means the Mage controlling said kelpie now has Derek’s blood.”

“That’s bad?” Derek asks.

“Blood is the most volatile substance you can use in a rune, but it’s also the most powerful. Especially if it’s blood of supernatural origins.”

Stiles pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes before sighing, addressing Scott. “You need to call Teagan’s alpha back and tell him what’s happening. If she waits until next week to come we won’t be in need of her help anymore because we’ll be _dead_. Either she needs to show up like, tomorrow, or we have to find a pack willing to protect us. A big pack. We can’t stay here alone though.”

“It’s that serious?” Padraig asks.

“Unfortunately,” Scott agrees. “You can’t—you wouldn’t believe the things this Mage is capable of. It was seven kelpies, and him, the night they attacked us. And in less than ten minutes everyone but Stiles, our aunt, and I were dead. It made him weak, though, whatever he was doing to sway the odds in their favor, and I’d thought that maybe it had killed him in the end, like Aunt C’s magic had.”

“I think we can be pretty certain he’s not dead if there’s baby kelpies going on blood runs to the Piggly Wiggly,” Stiles snaps. “That’s hardly coincidental.”

“Okay. Yes. You’re right, we should have told you and _I’m sorry_ ,” Scott says, exasperated. “Now will you stop being an asshole for a minute?”

“Yeah, no, I’ve earned _at least_ another ten minutes. I’m going to take a shower. Call Teagan’s alpha.”

The boys all stare at each other for a moment before Scott sighs and pulls out his phone.

Padraig moves to put away the groceries still on the counter.

Derek follows Stiles up the stairs.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Stiles says, tugging clothes out of his overnight bag with furious, jerky movements.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think it was that important. I just—“

“No.”

Stiles drops the shirt in his hands, standing, and plants both palms against Derek’s chest, pushing hard enough to send him stumbling backwards.

“You _do not_ lie to me. Not to my face and not by omission. Not _ever_.”

“Stiles.”

“I _trusted_ you. And this whole time—this whole freaking time you _knew,”_

Stiles’ eyes start to bleed yellow and it takes Derek a moment to remember that’s not actually normal, for him.

“Stiles,” he says.

“Stop. I am _allowed_ to be mad at you, okay?”

Stiles bares his teeth and Derek realizes something is wrong. Because Stiles is not a wolf, he stills smells completely and bafflingly human, but his incisors are a quarter inch longer than they should be and his eyes are pure gold and it sure as hell looks like he’s a were about to shift.

“Stiles,” Derek says urgently, moving forward. “I don’t know what’s happening but you need to calm down.”

Derek catches Stiles’ wrists as his hands move to push him away again and Stiles swears, wrenching one arm out of Derek’s grip and slapping him across the face.

And then suddenly Derek’s on the floor and there’s a whole lot more blood in his eyes and his ears are ringing.

When he looks up, confused, Stiles is staring at his hands, _clawed_ hands, _partially shifted hands_ , in horror.

“Oh shit. _Oh my god_ —what?”

Stiles drops to the floor next to him, reaches forward and then stalls, jerking backward.

“Derek. Shit. I didn’t—are you okay?”

Derek can hear Stiles’ heart rate accelerating, moving from adrenaline to something else and he recognizes the cadence with a groan. He hauls himself off the floor and the room tips.

“Stiles, breathe. I’m fine. You’re going to have another panic attack if you don’t calm down.”

Stiles is still looking at his fingers, now completely ordinary, and Derek covers Stiles’ hands with his, pulling him forward.

“Come on. Just breathe with me for a minute, okay?” he says, “and please don’t have another panic attack. Because I still can’t see straight and I don’t know if I’ll be much help. You can seriously pack a punch.”

Stiles makes a noise that might be a laugh into the curve of Derek’s neck and Derek rests his chin on Stiles’ shoulder, blinking until things right themselves.

“Are you okay?” he asks after a few moments.

“No, I am not _okay_ ,” Stiles says, “I just sliced your face open with—with _claws_ , I don’t even. _How_ did I do that?”

Derek leans back, wincing. There’s blood from his face smeared in Stiles’ hair. He can feel the wounds slowly knitting back together and resists the urge to touch them. Healing always itches.

“How are you being so calm?” Stiles says, reaching hesitantly toward the damage. “I literally just wolfed out for a minute, which, fae can’t do that, alright? This is not—“

“Breathe,” Derek reminds him.

He inhales sharply using his thumb to smear a line of congealed blood on Derek’s forehead.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

Derek doesn’t have a chance to respond because Padraig is suddenly calling their names and his tone of voice is one that verges on the frantic.

They stumble down the stairs, Derek leaning slightly on Stiles since the world is still a bit crooked, and they stop, startled, upon reaching the living room.

Padraig is crouched on the floor beside Scott, who isn’t moving, limbs flung out at odd angles. Padraig glances up as they enter the room, and sees Derek’s newly bloodied face in the same instant that Stiles and Derek see Scott on the ground and all three of them simultaneously exclaim, “What _happened_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh. Surprise! 
> 
> I'm still recovering from the plague, (apparently it takes a while to get over pneumonia, who knew?) but I've actually managed to get some writing done, which is nice. See you next week, as the plot continues to thicken!


	11. Chapter 11

Scott wakes up with his head in Stiles’ lap a few minutes later to a cumulative sight of relief.

“Ow,” he says.

“Are you alright?” Stiles asks.

Scott sits up hesitantly, kneading the back of his head with one hand.

“I was on the phone with—and then I—what the hell?”

“You fainted,” Padraig says. “Also, you dropped this.”

Scott accepts his phone with a confused noise. “I don’t understand. I feel like I just ran a marathon or something, like, I’m totally exhausted.”

The phone in his hand starts ringing and his thumb slides to answer it automatically. He puts it on speakerphone.

“Hello?”

“Scott Stilinski?” a female voice says.

“Uh, yes?”

“This is Teagan Moreno, Mage to the Sawtooth pack. My alpha just contacted me. I’d like to speak to your brother.”

Scott hands the phone wordlessly to Stiles.

“Hey, hi, Stiles speaking, or, I guess, Genim, if that’s—”

“Your brother tells me you’re beginning to present,” the woman interrupts brusquely, “Is this true?”

“Yes? I mean, we think so. I’m—I grew a tree, last night. On accident.”

“A tree,” Teagan repeats. “Approximately how large is this tree?”

“Around six feet?”

Derek glances toward the window. “Probably more like eight now,” he says.

“I’ll arrive tomorrow at noon,” she says. “But I’ll be bringing additional protection. I’ve been told Padraig Hale is housing us in his territory?”

“Yeah, he—he’s right here, if you want to talk to him.”

“I’d like to bring four wolves with me. Dominance levels in the sixty-fifth to seventieth percentile. Will that be an issue?”

“No,” Padraig answers, “Though lodging may be. I’ve been refurbishing a barn meant to be completed next week. It will not be finished by tomorrow, however.”

“That won’t be a problem. We will assist you upon our arrival.”

There’s a soft male voice in the background on Teagan’s line and she answers it, equally quiet, before speaking again.

“I suggest you do not leave the residence until we join you tomorrow. Our flight will land at 11:45, so expect us by 12:30 at the latest. Also, Scott,”

She pauses and Scott clears his throat. “Yes?”

“As Stiles’ legal guardian I am bound by law to inform you that the Sawtooth pack intends to court Stiles and our impending visit is an extension of both goodwill and invitation. As his brother, you are, of course, always welcome as well. I will see you tomorrow.”

The call ends before anyone can say anything.

“I’m not sure what just happened,” Derek says.

Scott, still sitting on floor, groans. “The Sawtooth pack wants us to join them. And if they help us now they’re going to be pretty pissed if we don’t, afterward.”

“Well that’s interesting,” Stiles says, crossing his arms. “Because three months ago they made it pretty clear I wasn’t welcome anywhere _near_ their territory.”

“Well, three months ago you weren’t growing trees overnight,” he answers. “Will somebody help me to the couch? I feel like I’m dying.”

Padraig hauls Scott to his feet, and then, when Scott’s knees start to buckle, picks him all the way up, bridal style.

“I think you need a bed,” Padraig says, “not a couch.”

Stiles stifles a laugh behind one hand as the older man carries his brother toward the downstairs bedroom.

“We will not speak of this, “ Scott warns them over Padraig’s shoulder.

Derek moves into the kitchen, using the already bloodied dishrag in the sink to clean off his face again and Stiles joins him, running his knuckles nervously over the countertop.

“Can you not tell them,” he whispers. “Just—until I get a chance to talk to Teagan I don’t want—“

He reaches one hand up, touching Derek’s now-healed eyebrow with a wince and Derek catches Stiles’ hand, pressing his thumb to the center of his palm. “It’s fine,” he says, studying the completely human, splayed fingers. “We’ve got bigger things to worry about at the moment anyway.”

“What, like our impending doom?”

“No.”

Derek drops Stiles’ hand as Padraig comes back around the corner and into the kitchen. “Like the Perseid meteor shower. It’s tonight and if we’re stuck here until the Sawtooth pack shows up that means we don’t have to wake up early for school tomorrow.”

“Heading to the roof, then?” Padraig asks, opening the refrigerator.

“If you think it’s safe.”

“You should be fine,” he answers. “Unless Stiles falls off.”

“I’ll try not to,” Stiles says seriously.

“Fine. Grab yourselves something to eat before you head up. I’m going to keep an eye on Scott. He seems fine, just a bit tired. He has been overworking himself recently, though random feinting spells in werewolves is certainly not normal. Speaking of,” he nods toward the dishrag in Derek’s hand. “You want to tell me why you were bloodied again?”

Derek glances at Stiles, who has suddenly found his cuticles to be fascinating, and then back, somewhat pleadingly, to his father. “Don’t worry about it, dad.”

Padraig takes a breath, pauses, and then exhales, shaking his head. “Fine. Don’t stay up all night.”

They both nod and make their escape.

Derek stands on his bed a few minutes later, showing Stiles how to open the round window above it. He’s got a quilt over each arm and a milk crate full of popcorn, beef jerky, and garden produce in his hands.

A few minutes later they are situated on the gently sloping porch roof, pulling blankets around their shoulders to fight off the chill settling in the valley.

“I thought the cold front wasn’t supposed to come in until tomorrow,” Stiles says, shoving a handful of popcorn into his mouth. A few kernels fall out and skitter down the roofline and over the edge

Derek still can’t decide if his way of eating is disgusting or endearing.

“Are you complaining?” Derek asks.

“Nah. I know the super hot weather makes you wolf boys grumpy. Cold is good. I am down with the cold.”

“That’s fantastic news.”

Stiles loses his balance for a moment, reaching for a carrot, and Derek moves a little closer, just in case. Padraig had been joking about him falling off the roof, but if anyone could manage it, despite the nearly nonexistent slope, it would be Stiles.

Silence descends for several minutes, save the soft noises of chewing and the occasional, “oh look, there’s one,” accompanied by pointed fingers. They lay back, unmoving, as their eyes adjust and the word gets more vivid around them.

“Thank you,” Stiles whispers, though he doesn’t specify what the sentiment is for.

Derek sneaks one arm out of his blanket and into Stiles’, finds the other boy’s unoccupied hand after a bit of fumbling, and laces their fingers together.

Neither of them feels the need to speak after that.

***

When Derek wakes up the next morning, he is alone. He tries to tell himself he is not annoyed by this fact but isn’t entirely successful. They hadn’t gone to sleep until nearly 2am, and now at—he checks his phone—10am, he can hear Stiles downstairs talking to Padraig and Scott. There’s condensation on the mirror in the bathroom and Derek can smell Stiles’ vanilla shampoo so somehow he managed to sleep through Stiles not only waking up, but also showering five feet away from him. Normally this would be worrisome, but the fact that he’s sleeping without nightmares momentarily supersedes the fear of being killed due to complacency.

He brushes his teeth, finds a pair of jeans that are probably clean, and digs out a long sleeved waffle-knit shirt from a still-unpacked box in the corner. It smells like home, which is strange, because he’s started to think of _here_ as home and the missing scents of red dirt and pine and _Stiles_ are disconcerting.

He lays back down on the bed and rolls over a few times, wiggling in place, possibly on Stiles side of the mattress, not that he would ever admit to it, and is glad there’s no one to witness this. Once the shirt smells a bit more right he dumps the rest of his cold-weather clothes from the box onto the bed, covers them with the quilt, and goes downstairs.

Stiles is sitting at the breakfast bar, drinking coffee out of a Christmas mug and flipping through a national geographic magazine. Padraig and Scott are standing in front of the refrigerator arguing amicably over what they should make for breakfast.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Stiles says as Derek comes around the corner, yawning. “I can’t believe you slept through my shower. I think your wolfy hearing might be broken.”

“I don’t have—“ he lets out an annoyed growl and Stiles laughs.

“You grow any more trees for me last night?” Derek asks.

The tops of Stiles’ ears flush pink.

“I will hit you with the newspaper,” he threatens, “and _no_ , I did not.”

“We don’t get the newspaper.”

“Well I will go to Walmart and buy a newspaper and then I will roll it up and whack you over nose with it.”

“Yeah? You going walk there or do need me to drive you?”

“I hate you,” Stiles says into his coffee, and Derek tries not to wince.

Stiles is joking this time, but Derek still doesn’t like it.

“Play nice,” Padraig says, “Or I’ll turn the hose on both of you. Any preferences for breakfast?”

Derek shrugs, pouring his own coffee as Stiles answers, “Anything, as long as Scott doesn’t cook it.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Scott says. “My cooking is not that bad.”

Stiles tugs at a lock of his damp hair. It’s now around two inches long and getting unruly. “You literally set my hair on fire while trying to make spaghetti,” he says to his brother. “I didn’t even know that was possible.”

“That was one time.”

“Yeah? What about the chicken -soup-incident-of-which-we-do-not-speak?”

“What happened then?” Derek asks.

“I’m sorry, did you not hear the name?” Stiles says.

Derek rolls his eyes as Scott steps away from the refrigerator, looking murderous.

“You promised you wouldn’t bring that up again.”

“Well,” Stiles says, fingers curling tight around his coffee mug, “You promised not to lie to me.”

“Oh my _god_ , are you still on that?”

“Yes, I’m still ‘on that’ you complete _asshole_. And I will still _be_ ‘on that’ for at least another day or two. I’ll let you know when I no longer feel like punching you in the face, but until then you can assume that’s the case.”

Scott looks like he’s going to respond, probably at a higher volume, until Padraig settles a hand on his shoulder, giving him a significant took.

Scott lets out a whine of annoyance and stalks from the kitchen onto the back porch. “I’m going for a run,” he yells, pulling off his shirt, and then quieter, “I love you.”

“Love you,” Stiles mutters into his coffee.

Padraig is looking at Stiles like he’s disappointed in him.

Stiles curves protectively around his mug and doesn’t meet his eyes.

“I think I’ll join Scott,” Padraig says finally. “You two can work out your own breakfast.”

Derek stands, awkward, as the screen door slams behind his father’s exit, and moves toward the refrigerator.

“So,” he says, “breakfast?”

“Not hungry.”

“Me neither, really.”

He glances at the clock above the oven. “We’ve got around two hours before they get here. Anything in particular you want to do?”

Stiles watches out the back window as two wolves, one massive and grey, one small and red, shake, nip at each other, and then sprint for the tree line.

Stiles rolls his neck and sighs.

“We could always get some homework done.”

Derek shrugs and they both head for the stairs. Stiles smells sad. And frightened. And angry. And Derek hugs him half way up the stairwell, not sure what else to do. He figures a hug is probably the right course of action when Stiles returns the gesture.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, just in case.

Stile’s fingers, hooked into the waffle knit fabric at his shoulder blades, slacken.

“Just don’t do it again, okay?”

“Okay.”

Stiles steps back, one pinky extended, the rest of his fingers curled. He is smiling slightly, but the gesture is serious. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

***

The Sawtooth pack arrives at a quarter past 12 in a burnt orange hummer.

“Where did they even _find_ that thing,” Scott whispers.

They’re all gathered at the front window, peeking through the blinds and Padraig slaps Scott lightly on the back of the head, nodding toward the door.

“Come on,” he murmurs, and they step outside.

The first person out of the car is the driver. She’s tall and pale, with long wavy blonde hair, and looks like she could be a runway model if the whole werewolf shtick doesn’t work out for her. A dark-skinned boy from passenger side of the vehicle, who slides out second, pulls the strap of a messenger bag across his muscular chest before reaching for the blonde’s hand. The next out is a willowy curly-haired boy who’s wearing a scarf, despite the fact that it’s 90 degrees.

Interestingly enough, the fourth party to exit the vehicle is a brindle-colored gray wolf. And he stands beside the car, head tipped toward the interior, until the fifth and final person steps out.

She looks quite a bit like Stiles, Derek thinks, small and lean and sort of subtly dangerous-looking. Her hair, however, is nearly waist length, and entirely grey, fading to white at the ends, which is strange, because the woman can’t be much older than thirty. She’s also got full sleeve tattoos on both her arms.

The woman moves slowly, cautiously, steading herself with a hand between the brindle wolf’s shoulders, and then the group collectively moves toward the house.

When they pause at the steps, Derek realizes, belatedly, that the woman is blind.

“Teagan,” Scott says, moving forward with a nervous lurch. “Thank you for coming.”

The blind woman, Teagan, smiles slightly, letting the wolf guide her to the porch.

“I feel I should warn you that our reasons for coming aren’t as admirable as you might hope. But I’ve never been good with subtlety and I’m sure you’re already aware of that.”

Scott snorts. “Regardless, I appreciate your alpha allowing you to assist us. He has my appreciation.”

This seems to be a satisfying answer and the brindle wolf takes Teagan’s wrist in his mouth, gently pulling her forward, hand extended, toward Scott.

Scott accepts the open palm with his own and Derek watches the exchange, somewhat fascinated.

The scarf-wearing boy slaps a mosquito on his arm.

“Can we go inside before I get malaria?” He asks.

Stiles quirks an eyebrow. “Werewolves can’t get malaria.”

That seems to break any remaining tension and they move as a group into the living room.

“Introductions first,” Teagan says, settling herself on the couch. She strokes a hand down the crown of the brindle wolf’s head. “This is my husband, Walsh. He prefers to spend the majority of his time shifted. I assume that won’t be a problem.”

“Of course not,” Padraig says, nodding to the wolf. He and Scott share a look that Derek doesn’t understand. Stiles sighs and mutters something about vacuuming under his breath.

“Erica,” Teagan continues, gesturing in the direction of the girl who looks like a model, “is our Alpha’s adopted daughter. She is nineteen and currently on a three month sabbatical before she returns with the Navy SEALs for another tour of duty. I requested her presence.”

The surprise must show on Derek’s face because Erica laughs, moving to sit beside Teagan on the couch. When she crosses her legs in a graceful, liquid movement, and bares her teeth at him, Derek swallows and looks away.

Teagan gestures toward the second boy next, who is sat on the love seat, watching Erica with an expression composed both of annoyance and affection.

“This is Boyd, 18, taking a year off before beginning college. He volunteered.”

Scott nods to him.

“Lastly is Isaac, a transplant from London and our youngest at 17. He also volunteered.”

Scott proceeds to introduce everyone, occasionally looking at Padraig for approval.

Derek is surprised his father hasn’t taken over the proceedings since technically Padraig should be acting Alpha both by dominance and territory but Scott seems to be doing well enough, and within five minutes the stilted initial conversation has begun to flow a bit more naturally. Padraig is beginning to discuss their plans for the refurbishment of the barn when Teagan interrupts.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but it is of the utmost importance that we set up the necessary wards around the house and interior territory tonight. If you don’t mind, Walsh and I will begin the process now.”

“Of course,” Scott agrees. “Is there anything you need?”

“Stiles,” Teagan answers, smiling. “We may as well begin his education.”

“I’m coming too, then,” Derek says, and Teagan’s smile gets wider.

Teagan and Walsh are almost eerily in sync. They move slowly, but confidently around the house and the barn, unloading jars and boxes from the back of the Hummer with an ease that only comes from practice. The wolf directs the woman’s hands and feet, sometimes with nudges, sometimes with gentled clasps of teeth and Derek finds the relationship both baffling and strangely venerable.

Teagan herself is disconcerting, everything from the sharp, spicy scent of her to the tattoos that map her skin. Some of the markings are vibrant and colorful while others are pale and warped, like scar tissue left behind after a burn. There’s a stylized wolf curled around her bicep that looks identical to Walsh and at one point, as he’s staring at the flex of the ink over muscle, Derek swears the tattooed wolf blinks at him.

Teagan’s hands are an oddity as well. The tattoo sleeves end at blunt cuffs an inch from her wrist bones, but there are thin lines, in reds and blues and greens, inked around her fingers. Some fingers have several of these circles, stacked on top of each other, while others have none, and he wonders at their significant but is too intimidated to ask.

She is small and fascinating, while somehow also being quietly frightening. A look-but-don’t-touch sort of creature. The kind that might let you pet it one moment and then eat you the next.

He follows, silent, as Teagan walks the circumference of woods surrounding the house, using a knife to make indentations in trees every few feet, pressing Hemlock into the spots of sap that bleed from the bark.

She explains about the parallels between Kelpie and equine genetics, the nuances that lead to vulnerability in the species. She talks about chemical liberation and aeration as she breaks Johnsongrass stems and crouches to bury them shallowly in the earth.

Her science lesson takes a turn for the fantastic as she discusses the importance of intent and the structure of runes that let her influence already dangerous plants so they are even more so. She touches the corresponding tattoos by memory and shows Stiles how to mix the ashes of Nightshade with salt, how to line the porch with the combination and wet it with vinegar.

They carve protection runes into the four compass points on the attic beams and leave Rowan planks beneath each window in the house with a parcel of nails in case they needed to be boarded quickly. They soak Oleander blossoms in the kitchen sink, scatter the petals on the lawn, and paint the door with the water.

By the time the sun begins to set, Derek has heard enough about plants and magic to last a lifetime. Stiles, however, has developed a sort of manic look about him, and he’s observing Teagan with an amount of hero worship usually reserved for Batman.

Derek tells himself he is not jealous.

Derek is lying.

***

When they return to the house, Teagan is exhausted, and she settles on the couch with Walsh draped over her legs like a furry blanket. She works her fingers in circles over his forehead and around his ears in an obviously habitual motion that makes Derek feel like he’s intruding. He and Stiles moves into the kitchen as Padraig, Scott, Erica, Isaac and Boyd appear on the porch. The group pauses to kick off their shoes and all start laughing at something that Scott has said and in a matter of seconds there are sweaty werewolves crowding inside, arguing over how many pizzas to order and if those pizzas should be of the Meaty or Extra Meaty variety. Completely unsurprisingly, Extra Meaty wins out.

Stiles falls asleep halfway though dinner and Scott carries him upstairs while Derek follows behind.

After Derek has moved the pile of his winter sweaters to floor, (Scott gives him a funny look, but doesn’t say anything) they put Stiles to bed in his clothes.

When Derek returns a half hour later, showered and in his pajamas, he finds Stiles awake.

“Hey,” Derek whispers, sliding in beside him.

“Mmph,” he answers, blinking.

“You alright?”

“Mhm.”

“Need anything?”

Stiles makes a negative note in the back of his throat and then wiggles a bit, tossing his jeans and shirt onto the floor a moment later, before settling down again with a sigh.

“Whatya think ‘bout Teagan?” he murmurs.

“Honestly,” Derek says, “I find her incredibly creepy.”

“I know, it’s awesome.”

Stiles is sleep-pliant and excitement-drunk and as he grins at him Derek finds the combination almost unbearably charming.

“Go back to sleep,” Derek says, and Stiles curls tighter around the pillow he’s hugging, pressing his face into it, breathing deeply.

Derek rolls onto his back, trying not to think about the fact that there is a beautiful mostly-naked boy in his bed who smells like home. He isn’t all that successful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have a long-ass chapter. I know I'm mixing OCs with cannon characters and playing with ages and such. I hope that doesn't bother anyone. Next week I'll be hitting the family farm for some Christmas-ing with southern folks. They now *gasp* have wifi, or at least that's the word from Mawmaw, so I should still be able to update. If not I'll be able to Christmas eve when we "go into town" for last minute shopping. They don't have a Starbucks, but there is a diner with wifi. 
> 
> Also, if anyone is following my other fic, Jealous Gods, and is waiting for Part 2 to begin (now titled, "Phaedrus"-do with that what you will) I'll either be posting the first chapter Christmas eve, or Christmas day itself depending on said wifi situation.
> 
> Happy holidays everyone!


	12. Chapter 12

Stiles wakes up sweating. A quick glance at the window tells him it’s just before dawn and the excess warmth, he realizes relatively quickly, is from a teenage werewolf who appears to be aggressively spooning him. A secondary realization is that he’s not wearing any clothes and he extricates himself from Derek’s grasp as quickly and quietly as possible before the situation gets uncomfortable for everyone involved.

He steals a pair of Derek’s pajama bottoms and heads for the stairs, stopping halfway down because he hears voices. One is Teagan’s, but the other he does not recognize. There’s no one in the living room, so Stiles eases down two more steps and peers through the railing on the opposite side and into the kitchen.

Teagan is sitting on the counter, wearing a t-shirt too big to be borrowed from Scott or Padraig, her silver hair tied up in a messy pony-tail. There’s a man in the kitchen as well, his back to Stiles, and Stiles assumes he is the owner of the shirt Teagan is wearing since he has probably three inches and fifty pounds on Padraig. He pours a mug of coffee and fits it to Teagan’s hands, taking a moment afterward to cup the side of her face and press a kiss to each of her eyelids. It’s a habitual gesture, and as Teagan redirects the man’s mouth to briefly meet hers, Stiles realizes this must be Walsh.

It isn’t until Walsh turns fully to open the refrigerator that Stiles realizes why it is he prefers to stay a wolf.

Walsh’s face is _mutilated_. There’s really no other way to describe it. Furrowed lines of scar tissue start at his forehead, curve around his cheekbones, and warp the line of his jaw. They disappear beneath the neck of his shirt but there are more marks on his arms: gnarled, darkened stretches of skin that twist and flinch with his movements as he takes out a dozen eggs and turns on the stove. Stiles can’t fathom the sort of thing it would require to leave lasting scars like that on a werewolf. And when he tries, the idea makes him feel sick.

He notices, as Wash cracks eggs, laughing softly at something Teagan has said, that there is a tattoo of a grey wolf curled around his left wrist, nose to tail, like a furry bangle. Stylistically it looks quite a bit like the tattoo Teagan has of Walsh’s wolf on her bicep and Stiles wishes he could get a closer look at it.

After another few minutes, Walsh turns off the stove eye, butters four pieces of toast, and sets two plates at the kitchen table, one with orange juice, one with milk. Then he moves back to the counter, scooping Teagan off of it and carrying her on his hip, like a child, to the dining area. She slaps at his arm when he puts her down in a chair but he just presses a kiss to the top of her head, puts a fork in her hand and tells her where the food is located on his plate.

Stiles creeps back upstairs as Teagan is chastising Walsh for treating her like an invalid and Walsh is reminding her, patiently but firmly, that she still hasn’t recovered from warding the house the night before. The argument has no heat to it and sounds like the kind of disagreement that occurs so often they feel they must do it again just to keep up appearances. Stiles is strangely jealous as he gathers some clothes and moves to the bathroom for a shower, his stomach still hurting with the implications of Walsh’s injuries.

When he finishes in the bathroom and returns downstairs, it seems everyone else has woken up in his absence. Scott, Padraig, Derek and Teagan are at the kitchen table, Walsh is once again a brindle wolf, sitting beside Teagan’s chair, head in her lap, while Boyd, Erica, and Isaac are scrambling what appears to be the last of the eggs at the cooktop.

“Morning,” Stiles says, dropping into an empty chair next to Derek. Derek wordlessly slides his coffee toward Stiles and he accepts it with a friendly elbow-nudge to Derek’s ribs.

“So,” he asks, trying not to stare at Walsh. “What’s the plan for today?”

“You and Derek are going to school,” Padraig answers, “Boyd, Isaac, and Erica will be joining you.”

“Joining us,” Stiles repeats. “Joining us how?”

“As students,” Teagan says. “Erica has an affinity for falsifying official documents.”

“No one appreciates my genius,” she says, sliding two pieces of bread into the toaster.

“Which is why she sought sanctuary from our Alpha two years ago,” Boyd adds. “Amazingly, a teenage forgery artist tends to make a lot of enemies.”

“And your alpha accepted her?” Scott whistles. “She _must_ be good then.”

“I’m retired now,” Erica says, pouring a glass of juice. “Mostly.”

Scott raises an eyebrow and Erica grins, walking around the breakfast bar with her plate, nudging the back of Scott’s head as she passes.

“So,” Erica says, sitting on the opposite side of Derek. “What classes will I be taking as a sophomore at the illustrious Beacon Hills High?”

Derek thinks for a moment and then counts them on his fingers. “English, Algebra 2, Spanish 2, History, Geography, PE, and an elective.”

Erica groans. “That’s not _too_ bad, I guess, but geography? Really? I will _never_ be good at geography.”

“Not with that latitude, you won’t,” Stiles says.

Everyone turns to look at him.

“Was that a pun?” Erica asks, frowning.

“He does that,” Derek answers.

***

School is weird. Stiles is used to walking the halls with Derek subtly glaring at everyone they pass, but being flanked by four werewolves as opposed to one is a new and decidedly annoying experience. The staring, which had died down a bit, is now back with full force.

“People are staring at us,” Erica says.

“It’s because of my dazzling beauty,” Stiles mutters, wrestling with his locker.

Though, honestly, considering the outfit she’s wearing today, Erica would probably be getting stares anyway. Her skinny jeans are teal, her sky high heels purple, and the black t-shirt she’s wearing is wide-necked and thin, clearly showing the outline of a bra that looks more like a lace work of art than an undergarment. She wears her aviator sunglasses inside.

By lunchtime, they’re ready to go home.

“I’m amazed you haven’t _killed_ someone,” Erica says to Derek, taking a savage bite of her sandwich. “They’re treating us like we have the _plague_.”

“Stiles tried to kill someone the first day of school,” Derek answers, “he got suspended for three days.”

Erica offers Stiles a solemn fist bump and he accepts it with a grin.

Isaac and Boyd, neither of whom had packed a lunch, are scowling at their cafeteria tray.

“This is all disgusting,” Isaac says. “I’m going to get something from the vending machine.”

“I’ll come with you,” Boyd agrees.

As they eases between chairs, heading for the hallway, the table next to theirs erupts in giggles and Stiles notes that while the girls of Beacon Hills High appear to take issue with Isaac’s genetics, they certainly don’t seem averse to ogling his backside.

“You’d think if they wanted in his pants they’d treat him a little nicer,” Stiles says, peeling open an apple sauce. He realizes he’s forgotten a spoon and bends the lid into a makeshift one.

Erica rolls her eyes. “I guess he’s justthe ultimate in bad boy appeal, leather _and_ fangs all in one nice little package _.”_ She subtly shifts one finger and uses a claw to cut the crust from the second half of her sandwich. “It’s understandable really, I stare at his butt sometimes too. It’s nice.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Are you two—”

He gestures from the hallway to Erica with his tinfoil spoon and she gives him a wide red smile.

“Nope.”

She pops the “P,” turning to very obviously check out Boyd. “I prefer a bit of muscle on my men. Besides, Isaac is about as straight as a rainbow slinky.”

The boys slide back into their seats, dumping a handful of Doritos bags onto the table. “What did we miss?” Isaac asks.

“Nothing,” Stiles and Erica say simultaneously.

Boyd shares a look with Derek.

They both shrug and return to their food.

***

Padraig picks them up in the truck at 3pm and after a brief squabble they all end up riding in the bed while Padraig sits alone in the cab muttering about ridiculous teenagers.

He, Scott, and Walsh have finished the barn into a somewhat habitable living area in their absence, and once the group returns home Stiles and Derek start on homework while the rest of them begin the process of outfitting the new residence with beds and necessary linens.

Teagan and Walsh find Stiles in the garden an hour later and Teagan tells Stiles it’s time to begin.

The words sound ominous behind her smile.

There’s a quilt spread a few feet from the back porch with an assortment of objects on it, and Teagan leads Stiles to sit on it. Derek, who had still been working on homework, comes outside and sets himself down beside Stiles, almost but not quite touching, like a somewhat grumpy shadow.

Stiles nudges him in the ribs with a sharp elbow and Derek bares his teeth in annoyance. Stiles rolls his eyes.

Teagan puts a candle in the middle of the blanket, directly between the two of them, and says, “Scott tells me you haven’t been baseline tested. Is this true?”

“Um. Considering I have no idea what that means, I’d say that’s probably accurate.”

“Alright. Baseline testing occurs when fae begin to present but haven’t yet manifested fully. It gives a reference point of ability and an indication of what you should work on in the coming weeks so you have better control when you do present fully. “ She flexes her fingers and Walsh pushes his head under one hand. “I have a rune that allows me to borrow Walsh’s sight for brief periods of time. I’m going to use it to monitor your progress, but I can’t keep it up for more than an hour, so we’ll have to take breaks.”

Teagan curls her fingers around Walsh’s temple and Stiles jumps.

Because the tattooed wolf wrapped around Teagan’s bicep has begun to move. It uncurls, stretching, and then sits up, moving to her shoulder, with a yawn. It lies out on her right collarbone, watching them, one foot hanging into the dip of her clavicle. Its chest moves with slow breaths.

“Your tattoo is moving,” Derek says faintly.

“Yes,” Teagan answers easily. “It does that sometimes. I can see you now. Are you ready?”

Stiles lets out a disbelieving breath. “I—sure. What do I have to do?”

Teagan gestures toward the candle.

“Light it.”

“How?”

“Believe you can.”

Stiles stares at the candle for a moment. It’s a cinnamon scented thing in a little glass pot and he remembers seeing it in the hallway bathroom yesterday.

“Alright. Believe I can. I’ve got this Peter Pan shit. Here we go.”

He rubs his palms together, squinting at the wick, tongue poking out the side of his mouth, and a moment later the wick bursts into a three-inch blue flame.

Stiles jumps, hands reaching, but not touching, and the flame flickers down to a reasonable yellow-hued level.

“Huh. Cool,” he says. “That was a whole lot easier than I thought it would be. So much for the musical montage of my epic magical struggle. What next?”

He looks up at Teagan and finds the woman gaping at him.

“What?” Stiles asks, glancing back at the happily burning candle. “Did I do it wrong?”

“No, you—“

Walsh huffs out the wolf-equivalent of a laugh.

“Shut up,” Teagan mutters, flicking his nose.

She exhales slowly. “Would you care to guess know how long it took me, the first time I tried to light a candle?”

“No?”

“Four hours,” Teagan says. “I literally stared at candle and accomplished nothing for four hours. And then I only managed to get it to smoke for a while. You’ve just lit and maintained a flame on your first try.”

“Uh—sorry? What about Aunt C? She was always really good with fire.”

“She had runes when you knew her, originally she didn’t fare much better than I did.”

“Oh.”

Teagan purses her lips, staring at the candle like it has personally offended her. “Put it out.”

Stiles blinks and the flame twists into smoke.

“Of course,” Teagan mutters. “Light it again.”

He does.

“And put it out.”

He does.

Teagan sighs. “Okay. Well. Clearly I am not the Yoda I thought I was going to be. I guess we should move on.”

She gestures toward a mug full of water next to Derek. He picks it up and replaces the candle with it.

“Freeze it,” Teagan says.

“What?” Stiles says. “How?”

Teagan raises an eyebrow and Stiles sighs.

“Right. Believe I can. Okay.”

He stares at it for a moment and nothing happens.

“I feel like I need to touch it. Can I touch it?”

“Sure.”

Stiles cups the mug in his hands, bottom lip tucked between his teeth, and a moment later drops it in surprise.

Derek picks it up, turns it upside down, and looks at Stiles with something that may be awe.

Walsh lets out a full blown bark of laughter.

“Turn it back,” Teagan says.

He does.

Next, Stiles is handed a tulip stalk that looks like it came from a bunch of flowers at the grocery story. There’s a bud, wrapped tight and new in green, at the tip.

“Make it bloom,” Teagan says, and Stiles grins as the green bleeds to color, petals unfurling. It gets heavy, the head of the bloom bending the stalk, and the petals start to droop.

“Shit, wait.” Stiles, worries his bottom lip against his teeth again, squinting, and the bloom tightens, straitening a bit until it looks perfect. “There.”

Teagan curses.

She tells Stiles to make the weather vane change direction and he does, calling up a burst of wind to swing it from North to south, which involves a lot of hand clenching and slow breathing, but not all that much effort.

After that, Teagan gives up.

She extracts her hand’s careful presence from Walsh’s face and her wolf tattoo shakes itself, moving back to curl in its prior location on her arm. Walsh stands, giving an identical shake, and noses at Teagan’s face as she blinks, eyes going unfocused again.

“So?” Stiles asks, still looking at the weather vane.

“So you’re good at everything,” Teagan says, exasperated. “Too good. It doesn’t—you shouldn’t be able to do any of that as an un-presented novice. Which,” she tips her face in Derek’s general direction. “He does still _smell_ human, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, and Walsh grunts in something that sounds like agreement.

The woman sighs, running a hand through her silver hair before twisting it into a messy bun.

“Well, until we figure out how you’re so gifted it’s of the utmost importance that you learn control. I’m assuming you’re going to present soon, which will double, if not triple your current abilities. It usually means you’ll be a bit of a mess for around a week and if you don’t have an anchor things will be even messier.”

“An anchor?” Derek asks.

“Someone who keeps you grounded,” she answers, standing. “Walsh is my mine.”

The wolf moves so that her knuckles bump between his shoulder blades and they move in tandem up the back porch steps.

“Aunt C’s anchor was my dad, right?” Stiles asks.

“Yes.”

“Can Derek be mine?”

Derek trips on the first step, barely catching himself on the porch railing, and Teagan pauses, her wrist in Walsh’s mouth, fingers reaching for the door handle.

“He could. But that may not be the best idea. Once you have established someone as your anchor it’s difficult to change. It’s best to find someone who can commit to being available to you long-term.”

“Well, I’ve got nobody who fits that bill. So.” Stiles crosses his arms, suddenly and intensely uncertain. “Derek?”

“I—yeah,” Derek says, “Of course. What do I have to do?”

Teagan opens the door, making a low noise in the back of her throat. Walsh responds to the sound with a snort, and leads her to the couch, sprawling half in her lap once she’s sat down.

“It takes time. And practice. And trust.” She appears pensive for a moment, fingers working through Walsh’s fur. “Sit down, cross legged, facing each other.”

They share a look and then move to do as she has instructed.

“Close, legs touching,” she instructs. “Derek, rest your hands palm up on your knees. Stiles, reach forward and find his pulse in each wrist.”

They shift, following her instructions, and go still again.

“Good?” Teagan asks.

“Yes,” Stiles says.

“Alright. Now Derek, relax your breathing. Slow your heartbeat. Stiles, try to match Derek. Focus on the sounds of his breath and the cadence of his pulse and think of nothing else. Count, if you have to. Think only of how calm and still he is. Picture a lighthouse in a storm. Derek is that place of quite and assurance, regardless of what is happening around you.”

Derek is frowning slightly in concentration, the tips of his fingers resting in soft, nearly unnoticeable spots of warmth against Stiles’ wrists. His pulse is slow and firm and Stiles curls his hands tighter, thumbs pressed firmly to the sinews beneath Derek’s palms.

Derek’s breath catches on an inhale, lungs pausing in their expansion when Stiles looks up to his face and for a moment they lose their careful rhythm. Stiles closes his eyes to find it again and hears Walsh sigh in the background.

“That’s good,” Teagan says. “You’ll need to do this several times a day. Just for a few minutes at a time. Everyone has their own particular way of working with their anchor. “Personally I find Walsh’s heartbeat to be the most effective, but for many people it’s breathing, or voice, or—hell, Claudia’s was reciting the periodic table with your dad. But she was always weird.”

Stiles releases Derek’s hands but doesn’t move away from him.

“How do I find out what works for me?”

Teagan shrugs. “Experimentation. Process of elimination. But mostly by necessity. As some point you’re going to get scared or pissed off and Derek is going to try a half-dozen things to calm you down and one of them will work. Hopefully.”

“Great,” Stiles says, deadpan.

“The more you trust each other, the easier it will be. And there are all sorts of things you can do to retain and build on that trust. Walsh and I do couples yoga.”

“Couples yoga,” Stiles repeats, looking vaguely horrified.

“I—“ Derek shrugs. “We could try it, if it would help.”

Stiles looks even more horrified.

“I mean. If you wanted to.”

Walsh snorts a second time and Teagan gives them a wry smile. “That’s enough for today. How do you feel, Stiles?”

“Overwhelmed.”

Derek catches one of his limp hands, giving it a squeeze, as Teagan laughs outright.

“Well, _that_ , at least, is perfectly normal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The farm has indeed entered the 21st century and has wifi! My excitement knows no bounds. This morning I had to attempt to explain Facebook to my 93 year old aunt. And then introduced her to CuteOverload.com, which was a huge hit. :) Merry Christmas to all you Christmas-celebrating folks!
> 
> (Oh and if you follow my Sherlock fic, Jealous Gods, the first chapter of part 2 will be posted tomorrow!)


	13. Chapter 13

Scott and Boyd are the first ones to make it back to the house. Teagan is stretched out on the couch, reading a book in braille, with Walsh’s torso cupped in the valley between her bent knees. His forelegs are curled around one thigh, chin resting on the jut of her hip, and he’s snoring softly.

Derek is attempting to finish his homework while Stiles is on Padraig’s laptop, reading up on a list of herbs Teagan gave him.

Scott falls onto the barstool next to Stiles, pillowing his head on his arms with a groan.

“Isaac is a menace,” he says.

Stiles shares a look with Derek.

“Oh?”

Scott makes a disgruntled noise in response.

“Give him a break,” Teagan says, setting her book on Walsh’s back, “he went through a relatively nasty breakup a few weeks ago. I think that’s part of the reason he wanted to come out here.”

“Well someone needs to tell him to take his ex-girlfriend angst-fest elsewhere.”

“Ex-boyfriend,” Teagan corrects.

Stiles winces as Scott’s face goes blank.

“Oh yeah,” Stiles says, “I meant to tell you about that. Sorry.”

Scott looks like his brain is in the process of rebooting. “I—Isaac is—“

“Batting for the other team?” Stiles supplies. “A Member of the union? A friend of Dorthy?”

He rests his chin on one hand, glancing at Derek. “That’s all I’ve got. You know any other euphemisms for ‘gay’?”

Scott pushes away from the counter, turning to face to Teagan.

“He’s—you brought a _gay werewolf_ with you. Here.”

“Yes,” she answers, raising an eyebrow. “Problem?”

“I don’t—are you trying to play matchmaker?”

“Isaac volunteered to come.”

“Yeah but how many volunteers did you have to _choose_ from?”

Teagan sighs. “Take a breath. I just thought the two of them might get along. I’m not trying to arrange a marriage. Though if Stiles is interested that would certainly be beneficial, politically speaking.”

“What?” Derek says, and Stiles realizes they have haven’t actually had this conversation.

Scott rests his elbows against the counter and closes his eyes. “Please stop talking.”

“My point is,” she continues, ignoring him. “I’m assuming romance has been relatively lacking in his life thus far.”

Scott lets out a snort. “He a human, well, sort of human, being raised bywerewolves in a predominantly human, incredibly species-ist city. How do you think his dating life has been? Still doesn’t mean he’s _that_ desperate though.”

Teagan looks affronted. “Desperate? What do you mean, desperate? Isaac is a catch.”

“Isaac is a flamboyant asshole. When we were at Walmart to buy bed linens he told me I had the artistic eye of a Bowerbird. I didn’t even realize what an insult that was until I got back and googled it.

“Well you _do_ have an affinity for colorful things that may or may not clash,” Stiles says.

Derek is looking more and more baffled.

“Not helping,” Boyd advises.

Teagan pushes one hand into her messy hair. “Isaac has a dominance level of 63, and an empathy level of 70, not to mention that he has a 4.0 GPA, a talent for languages, andconsiderable skill as a pianist. There’s no reason they wouldn’t be compatible.”

“Let me recap for you,” Scott says, holding up one finger, “Flamboyant asshole,” a second finger, “not interested.”

Stiles sighs. “Can I speak for myself?”

Derek growls.

Scott sighs louder. “Just because they’re the only two gay mythical creatures within a five hundred mile radius doesn’t mean they’re going to fall madly in love with each other.”

“I dunno,” Stiles says, making jazz fingers. “Sounds like destiny to me.”

Derek growls louder.

“There’s no such thing as destiny,” Scott snaps.

“Werewolf say what?”

Scott stands, moving into the kitchen.

“Enough. Now is hardly the time for you to think about dating, Stiles. And I’m _definitely not_ going to condone you dating some immature, hipster kid with a superiority complex and the scarf fetish.”

Something crashes onto the porch and they all turn to find Isaac on the back steps, looking furious. There’s a pile of unused lumber at his feet, which he has clearly just dropped. He unslings a chain from around his neck, tosses it with equal violence onto the porch, and then flips Scott the bird through the window before shoving hands into pockets and setting off at a angry stalk toward the woods.

“Way to be an asshole,” Stiles says, standing uncertainly. “Should someone go after him?”

Teagan purses herlips. “Would someone care to tell me what just happened?”

“Isaac was on the back porch. He heard Scott’s opinion of him and didn’t seem to appreciate it. He’s headed for the East side of the preserve now.”

He moves to the window and watches as Isaac pauses at the tree line to wrench off his clothes. A moment later a grey wolf pushes through the underbrush and is lost among the shadows.

“Let him sulk,” Teagan says. “And apologize when he gets back. Isaac has never been one to hold a grudge, but he is rather sensitive.”

Scott wrenches open the refrigerator with a muttered expletive as Padraig and Erica appear, looking confused, on the porch.

Padraig kicks off his shoes inside the door, glancing toward the woods. “Do I want to know?” He asks.

“Scott is a jerk,” Stiles says. “Nothing new.”

“What’s for dinner?” Erica asks, pushing past Padraig.

Scott closes the refrigerator with more force than necessary.

“Pizza?” he asks.

“Pizza,” everyone agrees.

Derek and Stiles start setting the table and Stiles catches Derek looking at him with an intensity that is nearly off-putting.

“What?” Stiles asks, eyebrows raised.

“Nothing,” Derek answers. “I just—I didn’t know you were—“

Stiles crosses his arms. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“No!” The tips of Derek’s ears flush. He pushes his glasses further up his nose.

“No, that’s good! I mean, fine. That’s…fine.”

“I know it’s fine.”

Teagan laughs from her position on the couch, and they both flush. They finish setting the table in silence.

***

The kelpies come at sunset. The group, minus Isaac, is sitting around the table, eating pizza. Erica is not-so-quietly judging Stiles method of consuming food and Stiles is happy to have someone with which to argue amicably.

“Really?” He says around a mouthful of pineapple pizza. “The werewolf is giving me etiquette lessons? You probably still have squirrel stuck in your teeth from a recent mauling.”

“Oh no,” Erica says seriously, “post-evisceration hygiene is very important. I floss and brush after every bunny-killing.”

She smiles widely, as if to allow said teeth inspection and Stiles is about to respond when Walsh lifts his head from Teagan’s lap, growling. Every wolf at the table pivots to face the door.

“Teagan’s wards should hold,” Padraig says, standing. “No one do anything rash.”

They move as a group to the front door and turn on the outside light. After a moment of silence, Padraig opens the door.

There are three black horses standing a hundred yards from the house, knee-deep in the brackish water of the neglected catfish pond. There’s bur reeds tangled in their manes and their withers are green with algae. They move forward as a unit, ears swiveling toward the porch, nostrils flaring, producing clouds of steam in the chill of the evening.

Erica growls and Padraig holds out a staying hand. “Easy,” he whispers.

The three horses get within fifty feet of the house before they stop with a jerk, heads tossing, eye-whites showing, as they stumble back a few steps. One of them brays in alarm.

Teagan laughs and Walsh licks her elbow, looking as proud as a canine face allows.

One of the Kelpies shifts and Stiles recognizes it as the girl from the Piggly Wiggly parking lot. She coughs, hiding her face in the curve of one wet elbow, and shrieks as the other two paw the ground, snorting, half-rearing.

Walsh howls in response.

“Scott,” Padraig says sharply. “Didn’t we estimate there to be four Kelpies left in the pack?”

“Yes?” He answers, grinning as the Kelpie girl tries to force her way through Teagan’s ward and only succeeds in falling backward in a fit of sneezes.

“Then where is the other one?” he asks. “And the Mage who may or may not be directing their actions?”

Teagan’s fingers tighten in Walsh’s ruff. “Isaac hasn’t come back,” she says.

Scott’s grin fades to something like horror.

“Shit. And I—”

He turns, pushing back into the house. Stiles can see him shedding clothes as he runs for the back door.

Scott is a wolf the moment he leaves the porch, running for the east side of the preserve, ears pinned, tail a pale flag behind him.

“You two stay here with Teagan and Walsh,” Padraig says, pointing between Stiles and Derek. A moment later he, Boyd, and Erica are running to follow Scott.

Teagan sighs. “The whole point of wards is that you stay _inside_ them to remain safe. I don’t see how this is always such a difficult concept.”

Walsh snorts, butting his head against her stomach, pushing her back inside.

Stiles and Derek take one last glance at the three furious kelpies at the edge of the ward, and then move to the back windows.

Erica is a solid black wolf and they lose sight of her among the trees a moment before Padraig, who looks nearly silver in the rising moonlight.

Teagan goes back to her pizza, feeding Walsh pieces of Italian sausage, as if all of this is completely normal, and Stiles feels a little like screaming.

Derek moves to stand beside him at the back door and drapes a gentle arm around his shoulders.

“Everything will be fine,” he says.

***

Everything is not fine.

The group returns, sprinting from the tree line twenty minutes later. Padraig and Boyd are both limping, their run more of an ugly fear-hastened stumble, and Erica keeps herding them forward, ears swiveled back toward the trees, as if expecting something to burst forth after them at any moment. Isaac is no longer shifted, naked and covered in mud, his human pace hampered by the lifeless wolf he’s carrying over his shoulders and Stiles is out onto the porch screaming Scott’s name before Derek’s reaching hands can stop him.

Walsh bounds outside and down the steps, circling the group, until they are inside the ward line, growling at the edge as two horses appear from the woods.

They’re huge, nearly twenty hands high and almost twice the size of the three in the front yard. They’re breathing hard, but no longer in pursuit, and they watch as the wolves move into the house, as Padraig stumbles up the steps, leaning heavily on Erica, as Stiles holds the door open for Isaac who kneels and ducks his head, allowing Scott’s bloodied form to roll onto the kitchen floor.

The kelpies watch as Teagan grips Walsh’s ruff and he leads her inside, as the screen door slams and Stiles’ voice raises above heavy breathing to demand what happened.

Apparently satisfied, the horses turn and move with liquid grace back into the woods.

Stiles doesn’t notice because he is too worried about the fact that his brother is bleeding all over the hardwood floor.

“What the hell _happened_?” he yells.

Walsh pulls Teagan forward, mouth on her wrist, and directs her hands to the deep gashes in Scott’s throat and flank. They can all hear Scott breathing, harsh and wet and awful in the silence. He whines as Teagan’s fingers probe the first injury.

“Idiot came crashing into the woods like a crazy person,” Isaac pants. “They were on him before I could do anything.”

“He was there looking for _you_!” Stiles shouts.

“Well _I_ was up a tree with my scent masked,” he snaps back, “ _I_ was doing just fine until this moron decided to play white knight.”

Isaac presses a hand to his ribs, coughing, and Stiles realizes he’s been hurt as well, though not nearly as badly as his brother.

Teagan shushes them, breathing slowly, thumbs pressing the mouth of worst wound back together. The blood flow soaking the sandy fur of Scott’s throat turns sluggish and the flesh starts to knit back together. The tattoos on Teagan’s arms flex, shifting with discomfort.

A Koi fish thrashes on her forearm, mouth opening wide, as the first of Scott’s wounds scabs over and she moves to the next one, fingers bloody, breaths sharp.

“Easy,” Walsh says, and Stiles realizes he is no longer a wolf, but a man, crouched behind Teagan, hands on her shoulders.

“I’ve almost got it,” she answers, and the Koi fish swims a quick circuit around her arm, rippling the other tattoos in it’s wake, gills achingly expanded in protest.

“Tea,” Walsh says, voice rough in warning.

“Hold on.”

The second gash closes and she pauses, flexing her fingers.

“Can I do something?” Stiles asks, feeling utterly useless. “I’m—you said I was better than I should be, I can help, can’t I?”

“No,” Teagan says, rolling her wrists. “Now is hardly the time to be experimenting with your abilities. You could kill him just as easily as heal him and I’m not going to let you be responsible for the death of your own brother.”

She presses the full length of one palm to the final cut, narrow, but long, and after a few more violent movements the Koi abruptly goes still, no longer thrashing, eyes wide and staring. Walsh’s fingers spasm on her shoulder.

“Tea, _stop_.”

She does, opposite hand reaching to cover the fish on her forearm, mouth curled, teeth gritted, as if she’s in pain. The Koi’s gills flutter to life again and Walsh exhales loudly. The fish moves slowly to its prior place, just below her elbow and resumes its former stance, though the orange of its scales seems faded now.

Teagan sighs, leaning back against Walsh, and smears blood absently between her hands.

“Scott’s own healing should be able to take it from here, though he shouldn’t be moving around for at least the next twelve hours. Anyone else need help?”

“I should be good,” Isaac says, poking the torn flesh over his ribs with academic interest. “Those suckers sure have some teeth on them, huh?”

Padraig grunts in agreement, no longer a wolf and cradling his right arm to his chest.

Stiles can’t see exactly what’s wrong with it, but it seems relatively mangled.

Erica, once more an annoying attractive human, is rubbing angrily at a set of shallow scratches in her shoulder. “I’m going to kill that bitch,” she mutters.

Boyd, still a wolf, licks his foreleg and grunts in agreement.

“How many?” Teagan says, and Stiles doesn’t understand what she’s asking until Walsh answers, “five.”

“So,” Teagan says, sounding both resigned and annoyed. “The other Mage now has the blood of five more wolves. Fantastic.”

“ _Excuse me_ ,” Erica says. “They didn’t get _my_ blood. This is from a tree they ran me into.”

“Well,” Teagan says, “four isn’t much better than five. But I’ll take it.”

Stiles, who has moved to Scott’s head and it petting the bridge of his nose with anxious fingers, shivers. The adrenaline that had flooded his system is now starting to dissipate.

“What do we do?” he asks.

Teagan sighs, leaning harder against Walsh.

“Right now I believe sleep is in order. And showers. And a bit of a clean up. I get the feeling you all have made a mess.”

Padraig lets out a bark of laughter. “That would be an accurate assessment. Good thing I sealed these floors.”

“I call first shower,” Isaac says, and Walsh lets out a single low note in his human throat that has Isaac sitting down on instinct, ducking his head lower than Walsh’s.

“Sorry,” Isaac mutters. “Teagan and Walsh get first shower. I call second.”

Teagan reaches behind her to pat the side of Walsh’s stubbly face and that dissolves a bit of the tension.

“Regardless,” Stiles says, “There are way too many naked people in this kitchen. Can you guys please put some clothes on?”

By the time everyone is showered and mercifully clothed again, the pizza has gone cold and Teagan is fast asleep on the couch.

Walsh, still human, scoops his wife up easily and says goodnight. Erica holds the door and then she and Boyd accompany them back toward to the barn.

Padraig is cleaning the kitchen, humming softly, while Stiles and Derek are scrubbing the last of the blood stains from the floor.

Isaac, nose wrinkled against the smell of vinegar, is sitting beside the quilt-covered sofa where Scott is laid out on his back, his chest moving evenly in sleep. Isaac is pretending to read a book, but he hasn’t turned a page in nearly six minutes, and his head is tipped toward Scott, listening to the other boy’s heart or breathing or both, so he’s not really fooling anyone.

The sides of his mouth are pinched down in what Stiles thinks is probably guilt.

Stiles switches from the damp rag to a dry one, buffing the piece of floor he’s been working on, and Derek sits back on his heels, surveying their work.

“I think that’ll do it,” he says, then, raising his voice, “Dad, does this look good?”

Padraig emerges from the laundry room and leans over the breakfast bar.

“Looks good. I’m heading for bed, you two should as well.”

“What about Scott?” Stiles asks.

Padraig rolls his eyes. “Isaac,” he says, “you planning on going to sleep any time soon?”

“Not tired,” he mutters, “reading a book.”

Padraig’s smirk is badly suppressed. “I’d say Scott will be well looked after. Guilt is an excellent motivator.”

“I’m _not_ feeling guilty because it _wasn’t_ my fault,” Isaac snaps. “It’s his own fault, for being an asshole and then being an idiot. And I’m not looking after him, I’m reading a book.” He glares at said book as if it has personally offended him.

“Right,” Padraig says. “Well, goodnight then.”

Isaac turns a page self-righteously.

Derek and Stiles exchange a look before dumping their rags in the sink and heading for the stairs.

“You’ll keep an eye on him though, right?” Stiles asks. “Let us know if something is wrong?”

“Sure,” Isaac says, turning another page with far more violence then the action requires. “Whatever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens!
> 
> Sorry for the late update. I got the flu from one of the tiny humans at Christmas. And let me tell you, it is HARD CORE this year. I literally felt like I was dying for 4 solid days. I'm on day 5 now and things are finally looking up, but my hopes of writing this week are pretty much dashed. Fever brain is not conducive to creative productivity. And my nasty post-pneumonia cough is back full force. Hooray.
> 
> Okay, pity party over. See you next week, and happy new year! (I'm celebrating by drinking champagne in my pjs watching Archer with my saint of mother who has kept me alive the last 5 days. Champagne, by the way, is so nice for sore throats. I'm not even kidding.)


	14. Chapter 14

Derek wakes up with his mouth pressed, open, against the skin beneath Stiles’ ear, breathing softly in the juncture where neck meets shoulder.

The allspice scent of him has sharpened. Now he smells like straight up pumpkin pie and apple cider and Derek can practically see leaves changing color when he closes his eyes.

That’s probably important, he thinks absently.

Derek shifts with no little amount of reluctance and half rolls, half falls, out of bed.

He can hear the soft murmur of voices on the first floor and he starts down the stairs before registering whom exactly it is that’s talking.

When he does though, he pauses, still sleep-muddled and somewhat baffled, because Scott is propped up on a pile of pillows, one arm wrapped in stained gauze, the other taped to his chest beneath the angry red of scar tissue on his shoulder, and Isaac is sitting beside him on couch, attempting to feed him cereal. Attempting to _spoon-feed_ him cereal.

It isn’t working very well.

“Oh my god,” Scott is muttering, head tipped up and away from the utensil chasing his mouth. “Would you quick bitching at me?”

“I got an up close and personal view of my own ribs yesterday thanks to you. I think I can bitch a little if I want,” Isaac says.

“Yeah? Does that include treating me like an invalid? Because the bitchiness isn’t all that surprising, actually, but the spoon feeding sure is.”

“Teagan put a lot of effort into saving your sorry ass. I’d hate for her energy to be wasted. So hold still and try not to reopen any of your injuries.”

Scott opens his mouth to respond and Isaac shoves the spoon inside. A good portion of the milk ends up dribbling down his bare chest and a Cheerio gets stuck in the dip of his clavicle.

Scott swallows with a grimace. “You did that on purpose.”

Isaac shoves the spoon back into the bowl. “I should have just let the creepy ponies eat you.”

“Hey, it’s not like I _asked_ for your help anyway, alright? I was handling it.”

“Yeah?” Isaac touches the bright pink line of still-healing skin wrapped around Scott’s throat. “Was getting your trachea torn out part of the plan?”

“Maybe it _was_.”

“Pretty shitty plan then.”

Scott sticks out his tongue and Isaac rolls his eyes. “I can’t believe you were the one calling _me_ immature yesterday.”

Scott bristles. “You know I wouldn’t have even been out there if you hadn’t decided to leave the wards and go throw a hissy fit.”

“Oh, so it was _my_ fault.” Isaac says, hands tightening on the bowl in his lap. “What was I supposed to do, come inside and listen to you extrapolate on the various ways in which I fail as a romantic partner? Because my ex-boyfriend has already taken me through all of them in a much more public and humiliating fashion, so forgive me if I didn’t exactly want to relive that.”

He tacks on a belated, “asshole,” to the end, after a moment of silence, as if realizing he’s said a bit more than originally intended, but Scott is already looking somewhat cowed.

“Sorry,” Scott mutters.

Isaac angrily feeds him another spoonful of cereal.

“Uh. Good morning?” Derek says awkwardly, coming the rest of the way down the stairs.

“Oh thank God.”

Isaac stands, shoving cheerios into Derek’s confused hands. Some of the milk slops over the edge and makes a damp spot on his t-shirt.

“He’s your problem now,” Isaac says, running an agitated hand through his already mussed hair. He spares a last annoyed glance toward Scott and then pushes out the backdoor, headed toward the barn.

Derek moves to sit beside Scott on the couch, looking somewhat apprehensively at the cereal in his lap.

“Uh, do you--?”

Scott sighs and lets his head fall back on the pillows, mouth open.

***

Breakfast is a subdued affair. Boyd and Padraig make scrambled eggs, and the group eats in near-silence save the scrape of cutlery and the soft bleed of music from Scott’s headphones where he’s still stretched out on the couch.

“So.” Isaac says, spinning the fork in his hand. “Do we have a plan, here, or what?”

“It would be nice if we knew what the hell they were doing. Or what they want. Or, you know, anything about them at all,” Teagan mutters, licking ketchup off her thumb.

Walsh, human for once, and looking uncomfortable about it, sighs and uses his napkin to clean his wife’s hand. She slaps him away.

Padraig stands, moving to dump his plate in the sink, and has just turned on the water when Scott’s phone starts to ring.

“Don’t even think about moving,” Isaac says as Scott starts to pull out his ear-buds.

Scott rolls his eyes, but aborts the movement, allowing Isaac to disconnect the headphones, lift the phone from the coffee table, and slide his thumb to answer.

“Scott’s phone, this is Isaac.” He pauses, listening to the other line. “He’s injured at the moment, can I take a—“

Derek can’t make out what the other voice says, but the rest of the wolves in the room all go still.

Stiles glances toward the living room, frowning, and Teagan tugs on a lock of Walsh’s hair.

“Want to clue in the humans?” She asks.

“Police department,” Walsh murmurs.

“Yeah, one second,” Isaac says, extending the phone toward Padraig.

Padraig turns off the sink and reaches over the counter to accept it. Then, with a glance toward Stiles, he moves out onto the back porch.

“Well that’s just rude,” Erica mutters, one ear tipped toward the closest window.

“Police business,” Scott says, yawning, and then wincing. “It’s ‘sposed to be confidential.”

“Rude.” Erica repeats.

When Padraig comes back inside a few minutes later, after pacing to the swing set and back, his expression is somber.

“A body was found at Eagle Lake this morning. Off duty officer with a cadaver dog was hiking the ridge and the dog alerted.”

“So?” Stiles says.

“The corpse is missing its left arm.”

“Oh.”

The Sawtooth wolves continue to look lost.

“A severed arm was left in Stiles’ locker by one of the Kelpies,” Derek explains. “We think it was some sort of warning to him.”

“Well, shit.” Isaac says.

“I’m assuming they want you to come in and give the body a look. Or, sniff, as the case may be?” Erica asks Padraig.

“Yes,” Padraig agrees. “They’re working on matching the body to the arm now, but they’d still like to utilize any other avenues available to them. Since Scott is unavailable, I’ve volunteered my services.”

“Can I come?” Erica asks, looking far too excited at the prospect of corpse-sniffing.

He considers her wide grin with a somewhat resigned smile of his own. “I suppose.” He studies the room at large as he sits on the loveseat and begins lacing his boots. “Stiles, you had something you needed to do today, correct?”

“Milking,” he agrees. “And no, it can’t be postponed. Especially if we’re about to go into battle or whatever.”

“You have snakes?” Teagan asks.

Walsh shudders as Stiles leans forward over the table. “Loads of them. Vipers, cobras, I’ve even got a black mamba.”

“ _Really_ ,” Teagan says, “that’s fantastic. Did Claudia help you start your collection?”

“Yeah, two years ago. And I’ve got her snakes now too.”

“Walsh and I will come with you,” she says, looking pleased. “I haven’t used snake venom in years.”

Walsh does not look pleased.

“Great,” he says, “snakes.”

Derek sighs with equal enthusiasm. “I’m coming too.”

Padraig nods, standing, and scoops his keys out of the entryway bowl.

“Isaac—“

“Let me guess,” Isaac interrupts, “I’m on babysitting duty.”

Scott curls his lip.

Padraig nods.

“Stay in contact. Every two hours I want to hear from each of you. Eagle Lake is a little under two hours away so let’s all plan to meet back here for dinner at seven.”

Everyone stands, moving to clear the kitchen table, and Walsh starts a sink of dishwater with a sigh. “Snakes,” he repeats, sharing a look with Derek. “Fantastic.”

***

The milking starts badly and only gets progressively worse.

Walsh stands, arms crossed, jaw clenched, against the wall beside the door, breathing in a series of nervous inhales and delayed exhales as Stiles handles the venomous snakes with a brusqueness that is both fascinating and frightening.

Teagan sits on the bed, grinning.

Derek stands at Stiles’ elbow, shadowing his movements, uncertain how his immediate presence will help in the event that Stiles gets bit, but unwilling to leave his side anyway. He watches anxiously as Stiles scoops a rattlesnake from its tank with a metal hook, pins it to the floor, and then, bare-handed, pinches its head between his fingers. There’s a bowl of ice water on the work bench, inside of which sits a glass cylinder with a funnel attached to the top. He picks the snake’s body up with his free hand, then slowly shifts his fingers on the animal’s head until its fangs are fully exposed. He moves forward, setting the snake’s mouth at the edge of the funnel, coaxing a tiny stream of yellow liquid down its fangs.

“That’s it?” Derek asks, studying the minute amount of venom in the cylinder as Stiles returns the snake to his enclosure.

“It doesn’t take much,” Teagan says from the bed.

Derek watches as Stiles pins a second rattlesnake to the floor, wincing as he reaches for its head.

“Shouldn’t you be wearing gloves?”

“No,” Stiles answers, pressing fangs to glass, “you can’t feel their movements through gloves. There’s—it’s hard to explain.”

“Oh.”

“Look,” Stiles says, somewhat exasperated. “Can you give me a little space?”

Derek shuffles slightly to the side, bumping Stile’s elbow as he moves, and Stiles lets out a hiss that would rival that of the snake in his hands.

“ _Derek_.”

“I’m sorry!” he says, backing up. “It’s just—can I do it, maybe? If you get bit—“

Stiles dumps the snake back into its tank with jerky movements before rounding on Derek with bared teeth.

“No,” Stiles says, hands fisted. “This is what I _do_ , Derek. And even with all this fae shit going on, this is the one thing that I’ve always been good at. The one thing that I can do that is beneficial in this mess and if you can’t handle that than I kindly invite you to go screw yourself. Either shut up and stop treating me like I’m made of freaking glass or go sit in the kitchen and wait.”

Derek closes his mouth with a click. He opens it again a moment later.

“But I wasn’t—“

“You were. You do. _Everyone_ always has. Because I’m the _stupid breakable human_.”

He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Fuck. Not human.”

Stiles eyes, wide and angry, fade from amber to gold. His breath hitches.

Derek moves forward without thinking and Stiles flinches away from him just as automatically.

They both freeze and Walsh makes a concerned noise from the corner.

“Stiles,” Derek says quietly. “You need to calm down. I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to but please just take a minute to breathe.”

“I don’t—“ Stiles drags in a breath looking at his clawed fingers. “Shit.”

“Again,” Derek murmurs. “Breathe.”

“Oh god,” he says, and it’s more of a gasp around too-sharp teeth. “What’s _wrong_ with me?”

“Nothing, Stiles. Nothing is wrong with you, breathe.”

Stiles’ panicked wolf-yellow gaze meets Derek’s and a moment later he’s stumbling forward, wrapping both arms around Derek’s neck, pushing his face into the side of Derek’s, dragging in another rough breath against his cheek.

Teagan murmurs something from the bed and Walsh answers, equally low, but Derek isn’t paying attention.

Stiles heart is racing, his breathing harsh and awful and Derek has never felt so useless.

“Breathe,” he repeats, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “Slowly, with me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good. Again.”

Derek’s fingers find their way into the riot of Stiles’ hair and pet, awkwardly, as he continues to say whatever ridiculous words pop into his head.

“We’ll figure this out, I promise. You and me. I’ve got you and I’m not going anywhere and we’ll figure this out and everything will be fine. Another breath, okay? With me. You’re doing so good.”

It takes three agonizing minutes for Stiles to go limp and Derek half carries him to the bed where Teagan and Walsh have been observing, silent.

Derek props Stiles up in a sitting position, checking his hands and eyes and teeth, completely human again, while Stiles continues breathing at a careful pace.

“So,” he says, flopping one hand over to nudge Teagan’s side. “There’s something else I need to talk to you about.”

“Apparently,” she answers wryly.

“You were shifting,” Walsh says, eyebrows pinched. “How is that possible?”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Stiles mutters, closing his eyes and letting his head fall forward to rest on Derek’s stomach.

Teagan is looking thoroughly annoyed.

“I have absolutely no idea. But I’m sure as hell going to find out.”

She reaches a hand in Walsh’s direction. “Let’s go back to the house, I need to make some calls.”

Stiles starts to protest but she cuts him off.

“We can come back tomorrow to finish, you’re in no shape to milk any more snakes right now anyway.”

He lets out an annoyed grunt, but doesn’t argue.

Derek’s phone rings as he’s debating whether or not Stiles would take offense to him picking Stiles up like a kid and carrying him to the car. He’s still paler than Derek would prefer, moles standing out in sharp relief against his cheeks.

“Hello? Dad?” he says, pressing the speaker phone button.

“Derek,” Padraig says, “You need to take Teagan back to the house, Scott needs a check up.”

“What, why?” Stiles says, sitting up straighter.

“Isaac just called. Apparently Scott was doing better and was walking around the living room testing his range of movement when he passed out. Woke up just fine a few seconds later, but since it’s the second time this has happened I’d like Teagan to take a look at him, if she’s up for it.”

“No problem,” Teagan says, hooking her arm through Walsh’s. “We were just leaving anyway.”

“Great,” Padraig says, voice slightly garbled by what sounds like a gust of wind. “We just got to the preserve so it will be a while yet before we’re heading back. Keep us updated.”

“Will do,” Derek says.

They say their goodbyes and Stiles, looking thoughtful, doesn’t protest when Derek hoists him to his feet.

“What are you thinking?” Derek asks.

“Scott,” Stiles says, tapping a finger to the middle of Derek’s chest. “Scott feinted when I almost shifted the first time too. Remember? When we came downstairs right afterward he was on the floor.”

Teagan makes a startled noise.

“Does that mean something? “ Derek says.

“Probably,” Walsh murmurs.

Teagan whacks Walsh on the shoulder. “Like I said, I need to make some calls.”

“But you might know what’s wrong with me?” Stiles says.

“Nothing is wrong with you,” Derek repeats.

“Maybe,” Teagan says.

“Are we done with the snakes?” Walsh asks. “Can we leave now?”

“Yes, darling,” Teagan says, patting his bicep consolingly, “we’re done with the snakes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This pneumonia is kicking my ass. Updates might be a bit slow the next few weeks while I'm recovering. Apologies.


	15. Chapter 15

They find the cat as they’re pulling out of the driveway.

“Stop!” Derek says. “There’s a cat!”

“Oh my god,” Stiles says, “I’ve never seen one of those before.”

Teagan snorts.

Walsh stops the car.

Derek jogs to the fence that separates the Stilinski property from the empty lot that boarders the house and it’s not until they’re a few feet away from it that Stiles finally sees the animal.

It’s not a cat. It’s barely even a kitten. It’s the size of a soda can, and has somehow managed to wedge itself into the chain link fence.

Derek crouches, pushing at his glasses, and makes a noise disturbingly close to a coo.

“Shhh,” he says as the kitten’s mouth opens in a wide pink exclamation of distress. “We’ll get you out. Don’t worry.”

Stiles had never paid particular attention to Derek’s hands before, but it’s kind of hard not to now as he slowly extracts the tiny mewling ball of fur from the fence.

They’re nice hands, objectively speaking. Large. Gentle. Kind of veiny and tan and—Derek cups the now-free kitten in his palms and brings the little animal to his face, grinning.

“Hey there little lady,” he murmurs.

The kitten head-butts his nose.

“No.” Stiles says. “No way.”

Derek turns to look at him, eyes wide. “What?”

“You totally want to keep it.”

“Well we can’t leave her here! Look how tiny she is. She won’t survive on her own.”

“Derek. It’s a baby. The mom is probably around here, uh,” he gestures around, “somewhere.”

Derek raises an eyebrow that says Stiles is a heartless cretin.

Stiles sighs. “I hate cats.”

“Lethal snakes, though, they’re great,” Derek says.

“Shut up. My snakes are useful.”

“So are cats.”

“Uh huh.”

“Hey!” Walsh yells from the car. “Let’s go, you two!”

Derek stands, kitten held protectively to his chest, and Stiles groans, throwing his head back.

“So we’re bringing it back with us,” he says. “To stay. In a house full of werewolves.”

“What, it’s not like anyone is going to eat her,” Derek mutters.

“Erica might,” Stiles retorts, climbing into the car. “She seems like the type.”

“Erica loves cats,” Teagan says. “She has two at home.”

Derek smirks.

Stiles sighs again. “Fine. But we’re stopping at Walmart for a litter box.”

Derek is too busy zipping the kitten inside of his jacket to respond.

Stiles does not find it adorable.

He doesn’t.

***

Teagan spends a solid five minutes checking Scott over before shrugging, stating yet again in a furiously vague tone that she “needs to make some calls” and disappearing for the next several hours to the guest house with Walsh. Derek is playing with the kitten, Stiles scrambling eggs, muttering about more hair on the furniture, and Scott and Isaac are in the midst of a heated monopoly game, when Padraig, Boyd, and Erica return from their trip. Erica looks thrilled, Boyd stoic, Padraig resigned.

“It was a match,” Erica says, bouncing over to the couch. “And you’ll never guess what else.”

“What else?” Scott says, pausing in the middle of rolling the dice.

“The dead guy was fae.”

Everyone in the room abruptly looks at Stiles.

“Well shit,” Isaaac says. “That means they know Stiles is too, right? And the whole arm in the locker was definitely a threat?”

“We were already operating on that assumption,” Scott says icily.

“Yes,” Padraig intercedes. “We can be certain they’re targeting Stiles, now.”

“But _why_?” Stiles asks. “I wasn’t even involved in the fight that killed our family. I was hiding upstairs. And I didn’t know I was fae then. Am, uh, Fae.”

“Yeah,” Scott agrees. “If anything they should be after _me_.”

Stiles sighs, turning off the burner and adding the eggs in the skillet to an already impressively full bowl.

“Well. If we’d like to continue discussing corpses, dinner is ready.”

“Yum,” Erica says, grinning wickedly.

“I’ll go get Teagan and Walsh,” Isaac says to the room at large, “don’t let Scott cheat while I’m gone.”

“Like I’d need to!” Scott yells after him.

“ _Children_ ,” Padraig says, aggrieved, “can we please move this to the kitchen.”

They cram themselves into the dining area with minimal fighting, and it helps that Walsh, back in wolf form, sprawls out under the table, nipping the ankles of those who get too rowdy.

“We need to start making like, a chore chart for shopping,” Scott says, poking at his toast. “I feel like all we ever eat is pizza or breakfast food.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Stiles says. “Does this lovely dinner I made not meet your egg-spectations?”

“Stiles,” Derek sighs.

Erica snorts. “You have to admit it’s not very…egg-citing,” she says.

“I think it’s egg-cellent,” Stiles retorts.

“But it can get egg-sausting.”

“Seriously?” Derek says.

“I think you’re egg-saggerating.” Stiles says.

“I think you need to egg-cept it.” Erica retorts

“Maybe you should view life a little more _sunny side up_.”

“Now you’re just _egging_ her on,” Padraig interjects sagely.

“ _Dad_ ,” Derek says.

“I certainly wouldn’t mind _shelling_ out a little extra money for groceries,” Scott mumbles around a mouthful of toast.

“ _Lay_ it on me,” Padraig agrees.

“Hey,” Stiles says, “you guys are _poaching_ all the good jokes.”

“I’m done,” Derek sighs, pushing away from the table.

Stiles watches Derek deposit his plate in the sink, then scoop up the sleeping kitten from the couch. “Well,” Stiles says, “I guess that’s all, _yolks_.”

“See,” Derek murmurs to the kitten, ascending the stairs. “This is why I like your company. No puns.”

“Snakes don’t make puns either!” Stiles yells after him.

***

Three hours later finds seven werewolves and two humans scattered across the living room, taking turns looking at the police file of one John Doe: Fae. The yellow document folder is being passed from hand to hand while Scott and Isaac continue to argue quietly over their monopoly game.

“How come you didn’t know the arm was fae?” Isaac asks, eating a fig out the mason jar in his lap. “I mean, wouldn’t it have smelled the same as the body?”

“No, it had been in chlorinated water before it was placed in Stiles locker,” Padraig answers, leaning over to steal a fig, “and most of the blood had been drained. It completely covered the scent.”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Scott mutters, as if Isaac’s question had been a direct criticism on his abilities.

Isaac rolls his eyes and passes the file over Walsh, who is human and French-braiding Teagan’s hair, to Boyd.

“Anyone mind if I lay out the pictures?” Boyd asks.

He starts before receiving a response and everyone sits up, moving forward to at least look useful as he carefully lines up the six pictures taken of the arm, then twelve more of the body at the morgue.

“Well,” Boyd says with finality several quiet seconds later. “It’s a dead guy.”

“Oh honey,” Erica purrs, “your powers of deduction are so sexy.”

He pushes her off the couch.

Scott sighs, gesturing with a handful of fake colorful money. “There’s really not much to go on. Fingerprints aren’t in the database, he doesn’t match any civilian missing persons reports, and none of the reservations in California have the slightest interest in discussing whether or not they’re missing a fae resident. The only thing vaguely interesting is the tattoo.”

“Tattoo?” Walsh finishes braiding Teagan’s hair and taps her side and she extends one arm, allowing him to slide a hair tie off her wrist to secure the braid.

“Yeah,” Scott points to one of the photos of the severed arm and Walsh reaches over his wife’s shoulder to pick up the photograph in question before going abruptly still.

“Tea,” Walsh says.

She leans back against him, a frown beginning to pull her eyebrows together. “What?”

“The tattoo. It’s on the forearm. Pale blue, maybe grey. It’s barely visible, but it’s there.”

“What’s it of?”

“It’s a circle with what I’m pretty sure is the Gemini constellation outlined inside of it.”

“Fuck.”

Everyone in the room stops what they’re doing.

Teagan reaches for Walsh’s face. “I need to see.”

He tucks the picture into her left hand, positioning her right against the swell of his cheek. His eyes go blank as the tattood wolf on her arm stretches and moves to circle her neck.

Teagan turns her attention to the photograph, settling it in her lap so she can trace the inked constellation lines with her fingers. Her eyes are wide and clear and very possibly frightened.

“We have a problem,” Teagan says.

“We _already_ have a problem,” Stiles says.

“Well, now it’s a bigger problem.”

“Fantastic.”

Derek, who had been very carefully not moving at the periphery of the room, sleeping kitten on his lap, dislodges the cat so he can move to sit on the floor beside Stiles.

“What is it?”

Teagan is still tracing the tattoo in the photograph with the tips of her fingers.

“He was the fae half of a Gemini Pair.”

“He was a what?” Stiles says.

“Part of a Gemini Pair,” Teagan repeats. “They’re incredibly rare, and _very_ difficult to kill.”

Everyone looks blank.

“Perhaps you could enlighten us,” Padraig says softly.

“Right, sorry.” Teagan takes a breath, “Gemini pairs are made when a fae child is bonded shortly after birth to a werewolf child. It allows the fae to manifest at a very high level, higher than most mages, even without the use of runes. It’s sort of a magical parasitic relationship, wherein the fae shares the life force, if you will, of the wolf they’re bound too. Of course if a bound fae does become a mage, they are extraordinarily powerful.”

“Damn,” Stiles says. “That sounds…why is it so rare? Wouldn’t all fae want to bond their kids then?”

“Many do want to, but finding a pack willing to sacrifice one of their children is difficult.”

“Sacrifice? What happens to the wolf kid?” Erica asks.

“Gemini pairs are beneficial for individual fae and packs as a whole,” Teagan murmurs. “I said ‘parasitic relationship,’ because it actually does the wolf who is bound more harm than good, but the fae must protect the wolf it is bound to in order to keep it’s heightened state of power, and therefore must protect the wolf’s pack by extension. The wolf’s pack must protect the fae because in the event of the fae’s death, the wolf will die also. In most cases Gemini pairs are created when a pack’s emissary has a child, and it’s understood that the child will grow up to take the current emissary’s place at some point.”

“Does it weaken the wolf? This…parasitic relationship?” Walsh asks.

“Not directly, but it can be deadly if the fae loses control, or attempts to feed off the bond instead of their own power. Most dangerous is that when the fae child manifests, they can easily kill the wolf they’re attached to, completely by accident, when they’ve no way of controlling themselves yet.”

“Damn.” Scott says.

“Yes.”

“This tattoo,” Stiles says suddenly. “It’s given to the fae kid when they’re a baby and this…bonding thing happens?”

“Yes,” Teagan agrees. “There is a ceremony performed where blood from both children is collected, mixed with a variety of ingredients, and a matching tattoo is placed on both children’s wrists while rites are read. The ink fades, though, within the following week, and does not reappear until the fae manifests, at which point both tattoos will be visible permanently until the death of one or both of them.”

“Oh god,” Stiles says, and Derek moves automatically closer at the panic in his voice.

“These Gemini pairs,” Stiles says, glancing at Scott. “Can the fae borrow the wolf’s shift?”

Teagan swallows, pale eyes meeting his. “Yes, yes they can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun duhhhhh.
> 
> Whee! I have finally retreated from the brink of death, but will be working extra the next few weeks because I am running quite low on funds after so much time off work. Next update should be posted by Feb. 3, and after that hopefully I'll have enough buffer I can return to updating every Tuesday. No promises, though . Thanks for being patient with me through this, and thank you for all the sweet notes, both here and on tumblr, wishing me good health!


	16. Chapter 16

There is a ten second span of silence in which everyone in the room looks confused save Walsh, Teagan, Derek, and Stiles.

Walsh, blank-eyed and somber, turns his face fully into Teagan’s hand.

Teagan is looking at Stiles like he’s a land mine someone has just stepped on.

Stiles is looking at Scott, horrified.

Derek, for some reason, glances at the tree outside the window. It’s nearly ten feet tall now. The full branches making soft clicking noises against the glass as the wind shifts.

“Derek,” Teagan says sharply, and he quickly redirects his attention.

Stiles’ breathing is uneven and his eyes have lightened to a pale golden-yellow.

“Stiles?” Scott says, looking bewildered.

“ _Derek_ ,” Teagan repeats.

“Right, okay.”

He moves between Stiles and Scott, sitting up on his knees to catch Stiles’ hand and press it to his chest. “Hey. Stiles. Look at me. _Me_. Yeah, good. I need you to focus, okay? Breathe with me, just like before. Ready?”

The rough breath he takes is awful in the silence of the room.

“Perfect. Again, ready?”

“—Scott—“ Stiles rasps, trying to look around Derek.

“Hey. No. Everything is going to be fine. You’re not going to hurt Scott. I’m not going to let you hurt _anyone_ , okay? And Teagan will help us.”

“Us?” The word is reedy but hopeful.

“Of course, _us_. I’m your anchor, remember? You can’t change your mind now and I’m not going anywhere. Breathe with me again.”

Stiles’ fingers curl into the fabric of Derek’s shirt with their next breath and Derek takes that as a sign that he can move closer, gathering them into a mess of limbs that probably isn’t comfortable for either of them.

Stiles doesn’t protest, and their next breath is slower, measured, and perfectly in sync.

It isn’t until they’ve been breathing normally for several minutes that Derek remembers they aren’t alone.

He clears his throat and Stiles, whose face is squished into his neck, sits up abruptly.

“Well shit,” Stiles says tiredly.

“Am I the only one who’s really, really, confused?” Isaac asks.

“Nope,” Erica says, popping the ‘p.’

Teagan sighs. “I can say with relative certainty that Stiles and Scott are a Gemini Pair. Scott’s recent feinting spells have coincided with Stiles becoming upset. Apparently when he feels panicked, Stiles unconsciously draws on the bond he has with his brother.”

Stiles, still more or less sitting in Derek’s lap, swallows hard. “I am _so_ sorry,” he says, voice wet, and Scott is moving across the room with a look of fury that makes Derek uncertain if he should hand Stiles over when Scott reaches for him.

“You do _not_ get to apologize for things that aren’t your fault,” Scott says harshly. Derek relinquishes his hold.

“You are brilliant,” Scott continues, “and if mom and dad had us bonded or whatever, they had to trust that things were going to work out or they wouldn’t have done it. They never would have put either one of us in danger, you know that.”

Teagan inhales and starts to open her mouth but Walsh reaches hastily for her face, and after a moment of blind reaching, clamps one hand over her mouth. Big as his hands are, it nearly covers her face. Derek tries not to laugh, as it really doesn’t seem like an acceptable time for laughter.

“It’s not your fault,” Scott continues, arms so tight around his brother that it has to be painful. “And I love you. And we’ll figure it out, okay?”

“Okay,” Stiles mumbles. “You’re kinda crushing me.”

Scott snorts and releases him.

“You _can_ help us, right?” Stiles asks Teagan.

Walsh moves his hand from her mouth so she can speak and after sparing a truly dire glace at her husband, who can’t even appreciate it as he’s currently blind, turns to address Stiles.

“I’ll do everything I can to help you, it’s good you’ve chosen an anchor because you’ll need one. Derek? Are you certain you want to commit to this?”

“Yes,” he says. “Completely.”

The tattooed wolf slinks once around Teagan’s neck, then arches, as if uncomfortable, and she sighs, withdrawing her fingers from Walsh’s temple.

“When do we start?” Stiles asks, sounding wearied at the very idea.

“Tomorrow,” Teagan answers, at the same time Derek says, “not tonight.”

Teagan laughs softly. “The best thing we can all do right now is sleep. We can begin after breakfast tomorrow, alright?”

It is a testament to how tired Stiles must be that he doesn’t argue. Derek isn’t actually certain if Stiles can make it up the stairs, as pale and shaken as he looks, so Derek stands, scooping him up into a fireman’s carry before he has a chance to protest.

“ _Hey_ —what?”

“You heard her,” Derek says, moving to ascend the stairs. “We’ve got to go to sleep. Right now. Orders are orders.”

“But—“

“Shhh,” Derek says, playfully smacking his open palm against Stile’s ass. “Do as you’re told.”

He’s expecting Stiles to bristle and squirm and swear but Stiles goes strangely, abruptly, completely still. Silent.

Derek is actually somewhat worried by the time he deposits Stiles onto his bed.

“Are you alright?” He asks, crawling in after him.

“Fine,” Stiles lies. There’s a flush on his cheeks that descends down his neck and beneath the collar of his shirt. “I’m fine. So fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine?”

It’s at times like these that Derek wishes his senses were fully developed. He drags in a deep breath, trying to taste the difference in Stiles’ scent because he knows there’s something—

He moves forward on instinct, trying to get closer to the smell that—

Stiles shifts backwards, nearly falling off the bed, and Derek realizes Stiles has a pillow over his lap that he seems very determined not to let go of.

Derek tips his head. “Are you—“

“I need to brush my teeth!” Stiles says desperately, leaping toward the door. “And shower. Because I am dirty. I mean, uh, I am really, really not clean. So it might take a while. So feel free to go to sleep. Because I uh, right—bye.”

He turns sharply and nearly sprints to the bathroom.

He takes the pillow with him.

Derek spends several minutes sitting on the bed with his head inclined toward the closed bathroom door, face hot, wishing very, very desperately that his hearing was just a bit better.

***

Breakfast the following morning doesn’t actually occur because they have officially run out of food. Padraig and Derek opt to go to the store and everyone save Erica and Boyd are outside enjoying a perfect cloudless morning.

Stiles comes in off the back porch for a glass of water and collapses on the couch, nodding to Erica who is doing yoga in front of the window. Boyd, filling in a cross word at the kitchen counter in pen, grunts hello.

Stiles drinks his water in silence for several minutes, watching as Erica does a trio of sun salutations.

“So,” Stiles says eventually. “Hypothetically, what’s the fastest way to a werewolf’s heart?”

“A sharp object between the fifth and sixth ribs.” Erica says.

“Funny.”

She moves from a plank into a cobra. “I don’t know, Stiles. Just tell him how you feel. Derek is head over his stilt-y furry feet for you.”

“Derek? Who said anything about Derek? _I_ didn’t say anything about Derek. I was just asking in general. For science.”

“Uh huh.”

Stiles sighs. “How did Boyd ask _you_ out?”

Boyd snorts from the kitchen.

Erica rolls her eyes. “He didn’t. I asked him out.”

Boyd snorts again, louder.

Erica rolls her eyes harder.

“Okay, fine. By ‘asked him out’ I mean I jumped him when he picked me up from the airport after my first deployment. There was a little old lady who was entirely scandalized. And it was a good thing he’d borrowed Teagan’s Land Rover because we didn’t even make it back to the house. Ended up parking behind the old mill at the river. Very romantic, let me tell you. So many mosquito bites in unfortunate places.”

“You’re the one that made me put the windows down,” Boyd says.

“Great,” Stiles says. “Thanks for sharing.”

“That would probably work for you too, you know,” Erica says conversationally, standing out of a back bend. “Just go strip naked and wait on his bed for him. I mean, he’s a little dense but I think he’ll figure things out relatively quickly if you did that.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles says, getting off the couch.

“Wait, do you have any cute underwear? Can I take you shopping?”

He dumps his glass in the sink. “I’m leaving now.”

“It was just a suggestion,” she calls after him.

Stiles can hear Boyd chuckling softly as the screen door slams and he descends the porch steps.

“Teagan!” he yells. “Please tell me you’re ready to teach me something.”

Walsh, a wolf, and very pleased with himself, comes bounding from the remains of the corn field absolutely covered in mud and smelling like algae.

“Been in the lake?” Stiles asks, grimacing.

Walsh rubs against his side in agreement, leaving a brown swatch on his leg, before taking off again around the corner of the house.

“Ick,” Stiles mutters, but moves to follow.

Teagan and Isaac are messing with something in the grass a few yards away from the fig trees and as he gets closer he realizes it’s a remote controlled plane, and a pretty big sized one at that.

“What’s that for?” He asks.

“Morning,” Teagan says, turning her face in an approximation of his location. “Since we need to wait for Derek to work on your bond control, I figured we could do a bit of basic element training. Wind and earth seem to be your strength, so I’d like to see how much you can do with this plane.”

Stiles glances from Teagan to Isaac. “I’m not sure I understand.”

Isaac grins. “Shall I?” He asks Teagan.

She nods.

Isaac picks up the plane in one hand and does something with the controller in the other and with a loud whir the little machine is airborne.

It buzzes in a lazy arch, climbing fifty feet before setting into a wide circular pattern.

Teagan’s face is turned unseeing toward the sun. She’s grinning when she speaks.

“Stiles, I want you to make that plane land.”

Stiles glances back up at the very tiny plane, then to Isaac with the controller, then back to Teagan.

“How?”

She quirks an eyebrow. “Haven’t we been over this?”

“Believe I can,” he mutters. “Right.”

He fists his hands, and stares hard at his slowly moving target.

But nothing happens.

He focuses. He breathes. He crosses his arms and then uncrosses them to rest on his hips.

He blows out an angry gust of breath.

“Nothing’s happening,” he says redundantly.

Teagan continues to smile. “Don’t try to move the plane itself. Move the air around the plane.”

“Oh. Huh. Yeah, okay, that makes sense.”

He squints upward again, then moves his hands to frame the plane on instinct, fingers curling, thumbs following the direction of the wind.

The plane turns.

Isaac curses.

The plane twitches down a few feet before returning to it’s previous location and Isaac makes a triumphant noise.

Annoyed, Stiles reaches harder, wrists straight, fingers pointed, and the plane drops like a stone.

“Shit,” Stiles mutters, cupping his palms, and the plane levels out.

Resigned, Isaac cuts the engine and watches as Stiles brings the plane in a long sloping descent to land at their feet.

“He’s annoyingly good at this,” Isaac says.

Teagan just laughs.

***

Twelve hours, multiple element lessons, and a second shopping trip later, (they had forgotten eggs, of all things) the house is quiet save the low hum of cicadas. The Sawtooth wolves and Teagan have retreated to the barn to sleep and Padraig is filming the final nest of fledglings in the preserve. Stiles leaves Derek in the living room playing with the cat and sneaks into the basement to retrieve a present he’d secreted away after he and Scott had returned from their quick outing to Walmart. It occurs to him halfway down the stairs that he probably should have turned on the light but by then it is too late and he is taking a nosedive into the abyss with a very manly shriek.

He lays in a heap on the concrete for a moment, taking inventory, before sitting up with a groan.

“Derek!”

Nothing.

“DEREK!”

Still nothing.

He takes a deep breath.

“DEREEEEEKKKK.”

The light clicks on at the top of the stairs illuminating a very scowly teenage werewolf.

“WHAT Stiles, I—what are you doing down there?

“I fell.”

“And you didn’t get up because?”

“I fell a lot.”

Derek’s expression snaps from annoyance to concern. “Are you alright?” He asks, completely un-subtly scenting the air.

“Not bleeding or anything. Think I twisted my ankle. Also probably some internal damage.”

“Internal—oh. You’re joking.”

“Yeah. Not about the ankle though. Come put your wolfy strength to good use.”

“What were you doing?”

Derek trots down the steps and picks him up by his armpits like a child before settling him against his chest, arms scooped under his thighs. Stiles wraps his legs around Derek’s hips on instinct and then flushes as Derek starts back up the stairs, seemingly oblivious to the relatively provocative nature of their embrace.

“Well?” Derek prompts.

“Yes!” Stiles answers automatically, then bites his lip. “Sorry. What?”

“What were you doing down there?”

“Oh. Right. I got some catnip for your stupid kitten, but I wanted to put it somewhere she couldn’t get to it so I figured the storm cellar was a good place.”

“Really? That was your best idea? You could have put it in the pantry, or one of the cabinets or like… any place other than the cellar.”

“Dude, the cat managed to open the refrigerator yesterday, I really don’t think a cabinet is going to thwart it. Also we should probably name it because calling it ‘the cat’ is going to get old pretty quickly.”

“Why don’t you name her?”

“I—really?”

Derek rounds the corner, continuing up the second stairway to the loft and Stiles clings a little tighter to his neck.

“Really,” he says. “What should we name her?”

“Stormageddon,” Stiles says decisively. “Dark Lord of All.”

“Stormy,” Derek murmurs, kicking open his bedroom door. “I can work with that.”

“No,” Stiles says. “Not ‘Stormy.’ ‘Stormageddon, Dark Lord of All.’”

“Stormageddon, Dark Lord of All!” Derek yells, depositing Stiles on the bed. “Come upstairs, it’s time for bed!”

“There you go,” Stiles says, grinning. “Hey, can you go get the catnip? I put it on top of the orange tool chest.”

“Sure.”

Stiles lays back, rolling onto his stomach, and a moment later Derek comes thumping back up the stairs. He’s expecting Derek to jump onto the bed but after several seconds bracing for impact he turns to glance over his shoulder.

Derek is standing in the doorway with the braided catnip mouse, no longer in it’s packaging, clutched in one hand beneath his nose. He’s looking at Stiles with a dazed expression.

“Derek? You okay?”

“This smells good,” he whispers, like it’s a secret.

“Uh—okay?”

Derek abruptly throws the mouse across the room, frowning. “You smell better though.”

“I—what?”

Derek crawls onto the bed beside him, sitting back on his heels, and the frown fades to a dopy grin.

“You’re in my bed,” he says happily. “I like it when you’re in my bed.”

Derek stretches out beside Stiles, butting his shoulder with his forehead, dragging his nose up to Stile’s ear. “I like when my bed smells like you.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles says. “You’re totally high. Werewolves get high off catnip. Holy shit.”

“You should always be in my bed,” Derek continues dreamily. “Like, always and forever, ok?

“Sure, buddy. Sounds good.”

There is abruptly a warm body spread across his back and Derek’s face pushes into his neck.

“Stiles,” he says seriously. “You smell so good. _So good_. Everywhere. But especially here. Would it be weird if I licked your neck because I kind of want to. I’m gunna lick you now.”

And he does, slowly, from the bend in Stiles’ shoulder to the patch of skin beneath his ear. Derek makes a happy noise and does it again and Stiles is abruptly hard.

“Oh my god,” he says again.

Derek drags in another breath, exhaling cool air against the damp skin he’s left on Stiles’ neck, and squirms on top of him in a way that makes Stiles acutely aware he’s not the only one aroused.

“Okay. Okay this is not good,” Stiles says, wriggling out from underneath him. The tiny bastard of a voice inside his head is telling Stiles that things are actually very, very good, and should continue, but he valiantly ignores it.

Derek makes a bereft noise when Stiles tries to leave the bed, though.

“Stiles?” He says, eyes wide and sad.

“Shit. _Shit_. Okay. You’re high right now. So. Like. Consent is not a thing that’s happening. You get that, right?”

Derek nods solemnly.

“So. We need to not, uh. We need to _not_. Until consent is a thing that _can_ happen. Okay?”

“Stiles, _please_ ,” Derek says, aggrieved. He’s reaching for him and Stiles moves back into his arms with a groan. “Okay, okay fine. But just cuddling, understand?”

Derek plasters himself to Stiles’ back with a series of pleased little grunts, and while his hips certainly shift more than Stiles thinks is entirely necessary he doesn’t try to do anything else.

“Smell so good,” Derek says, more to himself than Stiles, his lips brushing the bottom of Stiles’ hairline. “Gunna lick you some more. Just a little.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles says. “You’re going to kill me tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life is pretty crazy, but I'll try and have chapter 17 up by Wednesday next week. Prepare yourself, because that's when things start to get exciting, plot-wise. See you soon!


	17. Chapter 17

Stiles wakes up to the pale watery light of sunrise coming in the window. He’s cold, which is weird, because over the last few weeks he’s become accustomed to a werewolf space heater tangled around him in the mornings. Stiles rolls over to find Derek still in bed but sitting against the headboard, arms in a loose circle around his legs, with an expression that would probably be comical if it wasn’t for Stiles’ sudden remembrance of the night before.

“Um,” Stiles says. “Hey.”

Derek makes a pained noise and buries his face in his knees.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asks.

“Considering drowning myself in the bathtub,” Derek says.

Stiles snorts.“It wasn’t that bad.”

Derek straightens, raising one eyebrow, and Stiles can’t help but grin. Derek doesn’t have his glasses on yet and his hair is pressed into a messy curli-q on the side he slept on and the big-eyed rumpled look is sort of devastatingly adorable.

“Okay,” Stiles admits. “It was pretty bad. But harmless! And, I mean. Funny, really, from my side of things.”

Derek closes his eyes as if he’s in pain. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, dude. If anything it’s mine. Not that I had any idea catnip would do that to you. No one in our family had a cat before, so.”

“Where is it?”

“What,” Stiles asks, “the toy?”

“Yeah.”

“Probably still wherever you threw it. I’ll find it in a minute and get rid of it.”

“Okay.”

“So, you remember everything then?” Stiles says, just to make sure.

Derek nods, the tips of his ears flushing pink.

“Okay. And are we…” Stiles swallows, sitting up. “Are we cool?”

“I—yes? I mean. We can just. Forget it happened, right?”

“Right. Totally.” Stiles is suddenly intensely grateful that Derek’s senses aren’t fully manifested. Because he’s pretty sure he reeks of disappointment. “That’s cool. Never happened.”

He pushes himself off the bed and scratches at the spot in between his shoulder blades the he can never really itch properly. Normally he’d ask if Derek could help him out but he’s actually kind of afraid Derek will say ‘no’ at this point and he’d rather not confirm that his best friend no longer feels comfortable touching him.

“Well,” Stiles says, taking a step backward. “I guess I’ll go get started on breakfast.”

Derek swallows. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

He sighs, pulling up the waistband of his pajama pants so he doesn’t trip and is nearly into the hall when he hears Derek scramble out of the bed after him.

“No, wait!” Derek whispers harshly.

Stiles flails for a moment before trying to lean, somewhat normally, against the door frame. “What?”

“You, uh. You need to take a shower, before you go downstairs.”

“What? Why?”

Derek twists the hem of his shirt and mumbles something that sounds like, “Yusmellme.”

“Pardon?

“You,” he clears his throat, “smell like me.”

“Dude, don’t I usually smell like you? I mean. We sleep in the same bed every night.”

“No. I mean, yes, but not like this. I—they’ll be able to tell that I, um—“ he winces, “…with the licking?”

“Oh. _Oh_. Shit. Right. Well. Shower it is then.”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. So, I’ll just go do that then.”

“Cool.”

Stiles resists the urge to groan and makes an awkward retreat to the bathroom where he is completely unsurprised to find that he’s flushed red from forehead to navel.

“Get it together,” he mutters to his reflection.

***

Things are awkward. Like. Really and truly awkward. Derek avoids his eyes all through breakfast and even though he shadows Stiles through his lessons with Teagan, as usual, there’s space between them where there isn’t supposed to be.

Usually Derek is pressed against his side if they’re sitting. Lurking annoyingly close if they’re standing, always getting in the way of his elbows and gestures and generally being useless.

Today he’s several feet away.

It would actually be something of a relief, practically speaking, if the reason for it wasn’t so distracting.

Teagan is trying to get Stiles to fly Isaac’s remote control plane completely without the use of its little engine. And while Stiles isn’t having any trouble keeping the plane in the air once it’s already airborne, getting it to take off is proving difficult, especially since his attention keeps slipping over to Derek, lingering in his peripheral vision.

After nearly an hour of increasingly annoyed noises from Stiles, Teagan gives up and tells Stiles to go inside and meditate with Derek and not attempt any sort of magic until he’s gotten his head on straight again.

Derek and Stiles stand in the living room a few minutes later, studiously avoiding eye contact, neither one of them wanting to be the one to sit down and initiate touching the other.

Walsh pads in, studies them, for a moment, and then curls his lip.

The growl has Derek shrinking to the floor, looking sheepish. And while Stiles doesn’t have the innate compulsion to submit that Derek does, he figures obeying the snarling werewolf is probably the best course of action.

He sits.

Derek sighs.

“This is ridiculous,” he mutters, reaching for Stiles’ hands with an embarrassed sort of brusqueness. “Look, I said I was sorry, can we just move on?”

“I don’t— _I’m_ not the one being awkward,” Stiles retorts, making sure his knees are in line with Derek’s. “You’re the one being all space-y and eyebrow-y and… whatever-y.”

“That didn’t even make sense.”

“Your face doesn’t make sense.”

“Children,” Teagan interrupts from the doorway. “Can you please have your lover’s quarrel on your own time?”

They both flush and Stiles closes his eyes, trying to ignore the warm points of contact where his skin is touching Derek’s. Focusing on Derek’s pulse is surprising easy, though, despite everything, and fifteen minutes of matched breath and quiet go by quickly.

When Teagan tells them they can stop, Stiles finds he would really rather not. They separate, no longer uncomfortable, and Stiles moves to sit beside Teagan on the couch.

“Can I ask you something?” He says.

“Of course.”

“Do you—I mean, do you know if Aunt C was my birth mother?”

Teagan sighs. “Claudia and I…we existed better away from each other. She never mentioned having a child, in what little correspondence we had, and there were years between the instances when I saw her in person. It’s likely, though. Very likely. You do favor her.”

“Any idea who my birth father might be if that’s the case?”

“None,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

Stiles shrugs. “Not your fault.”

Walsh, who had disappeared sometime during their meditation, makes his return as a human and wedges himself between Teagan and Stiles on the couch.

Teagan shakes her head fondly at him and stretches, tucking her feet underneath her.

“Stiles,” she says, dragging one hand thoughtfully up the opposite arm. “How much do you know about mage’s tattoos?”

“Um. Pretty much nothing? I know they’re runes that increase magical ability but…”

“Yes,” she agrees. “That’s exactly what they are. Each of my tattoos has a purpose. The more intricate ones have to be done by a professional, and practicing mages who both know how to tattoo and have the artistic ability to make runes look pretty are difficult to find. I can give you the number of my artist if you’re interested. In the mean time, some of the smaller ones, more simple ones, you can do yourself.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. Would you like me to show you?”

“Uh. _Yeah_. Totally.”

“You see these rings around my fingers?”

“Yes.”

“They’re all minor links to other people. They let me keep track of them in the simplest sense. You see how most of them are blue?”

“Uh huh.”

“Blue means they are healthy and happy. They will turn brown, and itch, if the corresponding person is injured or unwell.”

“What about that black one on your pinky?” Derek asks.

Teagan sighs.“Black means they’ve died.”

“Oh.”

“With your permission, I’d like to make a ring for you now.”

“Dude, really? Sure. That’d be awesome.”

Derek makes an uncertain noise and the kitten, who had been studying them from her place on the loveseat, chooses that moment to launch herself into his lap.

He catches her easily, attention still on Teagan.

“Is it going to hurt?” Derek asks.

“Hurt Stiles?” Teagan says, “No. Me? Just a little.”

It’s Walsh’s turn to make a discontented sound.

Teagan ignores him.“Stiles, if I could have a strand of your hair?”

“I thought you said this wouldn’t hurt?!” He gasps.

She raises an unimpressed eyebrow and Stiles runs a hand through his hair.

It’s getting longer, nearly three inches and eternally rumpled. Derek privately has begun to think that he looks a bit like a startled brunette cockatiel. Stiles plucks out strand, wincing exaggeratedly, before handing it across Walsh to her.

“The only thing needed for this particular rune is genetic material,” she continues. “I prefer hair, personally. Walsh?”

Her husband carefully wraps the short strand around the tip of her pinky finger and then looks as if he’s steeling himself.

“Once you have your material in place you focus on what you want the rune to accomplish, in this case, a gauge of the health and wellbeing of the owner of the material. Then you set it on fire.”

The hair bursts into a tiny ring of flame and Walsh lets go, shaking out his hand. Stiles watches, transfixed, as a pale blue ring appears on Teagan’s finger in the fire’s place.

“That’s it?” he asks. “That’s all you have to do?”

“That’s it,” she agrees.

“That was…a lot easier than I thought it would be. Can you tell me about some of your other tattoos?”

Teagan moves her hand to cover the koi on her arm. “The fish, as I’m sure you’ve realized, is for healing.” Her fingers trail up to the tattoo of Walsh’s wolf, which flicks an ear before going still again. “The tattoo of Walsh’s wolf is a way of linking to him, similar to a Gemini bond but not as strong. It let’s me borrow his abilities, albeit briefly. The others…”she holds out both arms, shrugging. “I have all sorts of runes. Farsight. Strength. Luck. Immunity. Calm.” She lifts the side of her shirt, tapping a multi-hued blue wave that circles on itself. “Calm might be a good one for you to consider, Stiles.”

“What happened there?” Derek says suddenly, “Above the calm one.”

There’s a large expanse of skin from hip bone, to the middle of her ribcage that is pure scar tissue. It’s predominately pink and white, mottled with the darker olive of her skin tone in places.

Walsh makes a wounded noise.

Teagan sighs. “I had a larger healing rune before, two koi fish in an infinity symbol. I destroyed it a number of years ago.”

“Doing what?” Stiles asks.

“Saving my life,” Walsh says quietly.

“Walsh,” Teagan says.

“They need to know,” He responds. “I imagine Stiles is already planning his anchor link tattoo with Derek. And considering the bond he already has with Scott? He needs to know the consequences, Tea.”

“Alright,” she says, sounding suddenly and immensely tired.

“If you have a sharing rune, particularly with your anchor, or, in this case, with a Gemini pair, you have the ability not only to borrow their abilities from the bond, but give them yours as well. You have to be careful though, how much you give, or you may not get them back.”

“I don’t understand,” Stiles says.

Teagan opens her mouth and then closes it, licking her lips, and Walsh takes over.

“Eight years ago I was a stupid teenager and Teagan was a recent college graduate being courted by my pack to replace our elderly emissary. I was…difficult.”

“Endearing,” Teagan interrupts softly. “Brave.”

“Stupid,” Walsh says.

Teagan touches his thigh but doesn’t say anything else.

“I became Teagan’s anchor by accident and—“ Stiles looks like he wants to ask and Walsh shakes his head. “That’s a story for another time. The point is, I was linked to Teagan, fresh ink and all, with no real understanding of what it actually meant, the responsibility that came with such a thing. One night I went looking for trouble where I shouldn’t have and ended up nearly dead. Teagan saved my life, but at the cost of her own longevity. She gave me some of her time. Thus the grey hair.”

“How much?” Stiles asks.

Derek shifts the kitten so he can elbow Stiles’ leg.

“What? It’s a valid question!”

“You mean what does her life span look like now?” Walsh says. “We don’t know, but we’re relatively certain that at this point if one of us dies the other will as well. So we don’t really concern ourselves with it.”

“Ah.”

“Perhaps even more importantly,” Walsh continues. “Teagan gave me her sight.”

Stiles, who had been subtly jostling Derek’s shoulder with his foot, goes still.

“My eyesight was destroyed through magical means. Teagan knew it was useless but tried to heal me anyway, got angry when she couldn’t, and ended up blinding herself in exchange for repairing me.”

Walsh’s voice is rough, saturated in a kind of guilt that Stiles can’t even begin to fathom.

“You needed sight more than I did,” Teagan says, so quiet Stiles and Derek probably aren’t meant to hear it.

“But,” she continues, voice louder. “You’ll need to learn your limits, and you’ll need to adhere to them except for in the most dire situations. I very nearly didn’t survive healing Walsh. Losing a rune that size can easily be fatal.”

Stiles is about to respond when the back door slams and Isaac comes into the room, shrugging out of his jacket.

“Hey,” he says, moving to sprawl on the loveseat. “Any idea what’s for lunch?”

Walsh is about to respond when the door opens again and Erica and Boyd join them as well.

“Did I hear ‘lunch’?” Erica says.

“What about lunch?” Padraig yells from the porch.

Stiles sighs, standing, and moves to the kitchen.

They’ll have to continue the tattoo conversation later.

***

Derek wakes up at 4am to Stiles sitting on his chest.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Are you awake?”

“I am now,” Derek mutters. “What are you _doing_?”

“Can’t sleep.”

“No kidding.”

“I want to try something.”

Derek’s stomach swoops. “I—uh, with me?”

“Don’t freak out, though, okay?”

“Okay,” he whispers.

“I want to try and make a ring tattoo for you.”

Derek closes his eyes, chiding himself for being stupid. “That’s—I mean, that’s fine. We can ask Teagan to help you in the morning.”

“I want to do it now.”

“What? _Why_?”

“Because. _Please_ , Derek?”

He sits up, dislodging Stiles, and plucks out one of his hairs, because apparently he can deny Stiles nothing.

“Which finger do you want to do it on?” Derek asks.

Stiles wiggles forward again, still effectively straddling him, and balls his hand into a fist, middle finger extended.

Derek rolls his eyes. “Of course.”

He realizes after he’s curled the strand of hair around Stiles finger, just beneath the knuckle, that he isn’t struggling to see at all despite the dark and the lack of his glasses. He doesn’t have time to dwell on it though because a moment later the hair catches fire and he’s wrenching his hand away, shaking it as the burn heals.

They spend the next several seconds staring at the line that has appeared on Stiles’ finger.

“Dude,” Stiles says, holding his hand up to the moonlight coming in the window. “I think it worked.”

It occurs to Derek that Stiles is squinting because he probably can’t see very well and he reaches out to turn on the lamp, wondering why he hadn’t thought of that before. Derek can feel the warmth emanating off of Stiles, hear his heartbeat where they’re still pressed practically chest to chest. Smell his excitement. That’s probably why he hadn’t thought to turn off the light. Stiles is more than a little distracting.

“Should we test it?” Derek asks, after their eyes have adjusted.

“Test it how?” Stiles whispers.

Derek pops a claw and stabs himself in the thigh.

Stiles lets out a half-aborted scream.

“What the _fuck_ , dude,” he whisper-shouts.

“Look,” Derek says.

The tattoo around Stiles’ finger has turned a golden-brown. They watch it fade back to blue as the wound in his leg slowly scabs over.

“Awesome,” Stiles says reverently.

In a sudden upheaval of movement he flails his way off Derek’s lap and out of the bed. “I’ll be right back,” he says.

“Where are you going?”

“Back porch. I left the book Teagan gave me about runes on the porch swing.”

“And you can’t wait to get it till morning?”

“Dude. I’m so amped. There’s no way I’m going back to sleep. I have research to do!”

Derek sighs. “Fine. But I’m coming with you.”

“Derek, I’m going five feet outside the door, not leaving the wards.”

“Still.”

Stiles groans, but waits for Derek to pull on a pair of pants over his boxers before heading for the stairs. Stiles, apparently, has no qualms about wandering around in a T shirt and boxers.

As Derek is carefully opening the screen door, the kitten, who had followed them downstairs, makes a break for it.

“Shit,” Derek hisses, darting after it. “Stop!”

Stiles catches the door before it can slam and shimmies out after him, following Derek onto the dew-damp grass and whisper-shouting at the kitten to come back.

They catch her just in front of the line of fig trees and Derek coos at her while Stiles shivers, pulling a face at the wet grass clinging to his bare feet.

The kitten wails in disappointment.

“Dude,” Stiles says turning back toward the house. “Your cat is possessed.”

Derek grunts.

Is isn’t until Stiles is nearly back to the porch that he realizes Derek isn’t behind him.

“Hey,” he says over his shoulder, “you coming?”

He turns, squinting, when there’s no response, and only has a chance to inhale sharply before a starburst of pain lances across his temple and the world tips sideways before going entirely black.

  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahoy! Sorry I skipped last week. One of my best friends has leukemia and is ramping up in his treatment to prepare for a bone marrow transplant, so I'm spending essentially all my free time at the hospital with him. Cancer sucks pretty hardcore. I'll try to have another chapter ready by next week, but it's likely that my updates will be every other week for a while. If that's the case...sorry about the cliffhanger! :)


	18. Chapter 18

Stiles has never had a hangover before but he imagines they must feel something like this.

His head is killing him. He’s in his underwear. And he has absolutely no idea where he is.

“Umph,” he says, forcing himself to sit up.

It takes a few slow blinks for the world to right itself, and, when it does, he groans.

“Oh god, it’s like a bad movie.”

He’s in some sort of warehouse or bunker or similar large industrial metal building. There’s fluorescent lighting and stacked crates and a general air of usefulness about the place.

Stiles is sitting in the middle of a chalk circle which is residing within an even larger chalk pentagram.

“Well,” he says aloud, because he’s already been talking to himself so he may as well continue. “This is probably not good.”

He crawls forward and immediately is thrown backwards when he tries to leave the circle.

“Fuck. Okay. Definitely not good.” He looks around somewhat desperately. “Derek?” He calls. “DEREK, CAN YOU HEAR ME?”

A muffled growl that is delightfully familiar answers and Stiles spins, trying to find the source of it. “Derek? Where are you?”

There’s several large shipping kennels, like something that would be used to transport an animal, against the wall opposite him. He sees a flash of red fur, and then the gleam of teeth, tugging vainly at the metal door of one crate.

“Oh thank God,” Stiles mutters, moving as close as he dares to the edge of the circle. “Are you alright?”

The growling moves up in pitch.

“Shit, okay. One bark for yes, two for no. Are you hurt?”

Two short barks.

“I take it you can’t shift back for some reason?”

One bark, that seems awfully sarcastic.

“Right. Okay. Any idea where we are?”

One frustrated bark.

“Well that’s. Uh. Crap.”

Wolf-Derek snorts.

“Was it the Kelpies?”

Derek pauses, then gives a soft bark. It feels conditional.

“Okay, was it the Kelpies and whoever has been helping them?”

One bark.

“Is he fae like we thought?”

Two barks.

“Human?”

One bark immediately followed by a growl.

“Okay, that’s a ‘but’ if I ever heard one,” Stiles mutters. “So he’s human, but…he has help from someone—“

Derek whines.

“Some…thing? Not human.”

One bark.

“Jeez this is tedious,” Stiles says.

Wolf-Derek makes an annoyed noise and Stiles is relatively sure he’s rolling his eyes.

“I mean, I’m sure it sucks for you too, dude,” Stiles says. “But how the hell am I supposed to just guess what we’re dealing with? There’s dozens of supernatural things that could be behind this. I guess I‘ll just start listing them and you can—“

He doesn’t get a chance to finish as a female voice interrupts him.

“Demons.”

“—the hell?” Stiles says, spinning in a circle.

And then his already throbbing heads nearly decides to give up and pass right back out again because it seems entirely impossible that Lydia Martin is standing in front of him.

“It’s demons,” she says again, somewhat impatiently. “Or at least, sort of. The human has a demon’s blood stone. It lets him steal magical energy and repurpose it.”

“I—what?” Stiles says, still trying to comprehend the fact that Lydia Martin. President of the honor society, prom queen, strawberry blonde princess and captain of the Mathaletes team, is somehow involved in this.

“I am,” he manages finally, “really confused.”

“Jackson is a Kanima.” She says, as if that explains anything.

“Still confused,” he repeats.

Lydia frowns at him, “Argent controls Jackson. And apparently he has for a while, we just didn’t know because Jackson doesn’t remember anything from when he’s shifted. I keep him under control on the full moons, but somehow Argent managed to get some of his blood. That supersedes any sway over him I hold.”

“Argent?”

“Gerard. He has some sort of agenda against Fae and Wolves. Though he doesn’t appear to have an issue whatsoever with Kelpies and demons.”

“I don’t—“ Stiles glances around somewhat franticly. “Can you get me out of here?”

“No. Sorry. It’ll burn me if I try to cross the pentagram to break the circle.”

“What about Derek? Can you let him out?”

“The kennel is padlocked.”

“Can you leave? Can you get help?”

“No.”

“ _Why not_?” he says, desperation beginning to color his tone.

“Because her boyfriend is my puppet and she’d rather I not hurt him.” A new voice says.

Gerard Argent is not an attractive man. It might have something to do with the eerie red glow coming from the stone hung around his neck. But also, Stiles thinks, the dude is just plain ugly. He’s got patchy grey hair and large puckered bags beneath dark, frightening eyes. The lines around his mouth are scored deep. They multiply when he smiles.

“Oh my god,” Stiles says, feeling a tell-tale tightness beginning in his chest. “What the hell do you want from us?”

“Nothing much,” Argent says, hands in his pockets as he walks closer. “I just want to play a little game.”

“A game,” Stiles repeats. “Fantastic.”

“I’ve been waiting quite a while to play it. Couldn’t start until I’d collected all the necessary pieces.”

He rocks back onto his heels. “But I’ve got them all now, so we can finally begin.”

He glances at Lydia and the smile on his awful cold face widens. “Jackson,” he says, raising his voice. “Join us, if you would.”

Stiles is used to seeing Jackson at school. He has a distinctive king-of-the-world, rich kid swagger that is immediately recognizable, even if Jackson himself isn’t.

He imagines that in any other circumstance he would find it hysterical that even as a brainwashed, half-transformed lizard man, Jackson still struts around like he owns the place, but unfortunately he can’t dwell on the hilarity of the situation at present. No doubt he’ll return to the image at some point when things are less dire.

Jackson emerges from behind the stacked animal crates where Derek, now growling constantly, is being held.

He doesn’t say anything as he comes to stand at Argent’s side and Stiles is immediately struck by an itch to touch the weird scaly texture to his skin.

Lydia sighs and moves to sit on the ground just outside Stiles’ pentagram. It seems as if she’s trying to avoid looking at her creep-tastic boyfriend.

“Jackson,” Argent says. “Do me a favor and shoot Mr. Hale.”

He hands over a gun, winking in Stiles’ direction. “Wolfsbane bullets,” he says conspiratorially. “Full potency. Made them myself.”

Stiles jumps to his feet as Jackson moves back toward the crates, gun in hand. “Stop!” He yells. “Jackson, please!”

“Stiles,” Lydia says, voice small. “He can’t.”

Derek’s growling has reached a low base pitch and he’s pressed as closely to the back of the kennel as he can get. Stiles can hear his toenails scrabbling against the plastic bottom as Jackson crouches down, aiming the gun through the barred door.

“Jackson, no!” Stiles says again. He reaches out, trying to turn off the lights, to shake the earth, to do something to prevent Jackson from pulling the trigger, but the pentagram must isolate his abilities as well because nothing happens.

The gunshot echoes in the enclosed space and the deep growling cuts into terrible animal squeals of pain. The tattooed ring around Stiles finger burns like he’d wrapped a live wire around it.

“Derek! _Derek_?!”

“Now, Jackson,” Argent says placidly, “If you would put on a bit more human face, I believe Mr. Hale has a plane to catch.” He turns to address Stiles, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re at the airport. Convenient, don’t you think?

Jackson picks up the crate like it weighs nothing and slides it onto a nearby luggage trolley. Derek whimpers once more and goes silent.

“DEREK!” Stiles yells again, and even knowing it’s useless, tries to push through the circle. He’s thrown back.

“Don’t worry,” Argent says, watching as Jackson wheels the trolley toward the door of the building. “Mr. Hale is still alive. At least for now. The wolfsbane shouldn’t kill him for another hour or two. Unfortunately,” he checks his watch, feigning disappointment. “Unfortunately, the flight he’ll be on is to New York. So I’m afraid he won’t reach his destination alive.”

“NO,” Stiles screams. He can feel something tickle down the length of one arm and realizes there’s little sparks of electricity moving across the surface of his skin. He doesn’t have a chance to really think about how cool that is.

“Why are you doing this?!” He asks, pushing himself back to his feet. “I don’t understand.”

“I told you,” Argent says patiently. “We’re playing a game. It’s not your turn yet, though.”

Stiles takes a running start this time, slamming into the circle’s barrier with both palms upraised, believing with every fiber of his furious being that he’s going to explode the damn pentagram if that’s what it takes to get out. There’s a strange moment of silence when he hits resistance before a crackle of electricity turns to static and blue light spiderwebs out from his palms.

_Shit, it’s actually working,_ he thinks absently, immediately followed by, _I really did not think this through._

The following explosion is testament to that.

***

Stiles wakes up feeling distinctly singed. Which is strange because he didn’t know one could feel “singed” until that moment.

“Derek?” he says, and opens his eyes.

Lydia is standing over him, hands curled together as if afraid to touch him.

“Stiles?” She says.

He sits up and is pleased to see that there’s a black blast radius of nearly six feet extending away from him on all sides. The pentagram is gone. Upon reflection, he realizes that Argent is gone too.

“What—how long was I-?”

“About fifteen minutes. You need to find Derek,” she says urgently. “Argent said to tell you, when you woke up. He’ll be in the cargo hold of American Airlines flight 624. Gate 23. It’s supposed to take off in less than ten minutes though and I don’t know why, or what—“

Stiles doesn’t stick around to hear the rest. He pushes himself to his feel, feeling strangely buoyed, and starts running.

***

He doesn’t make it.

It takes him fifteen minutes of running, believing very hard that he is invisible, to find the gate. He doesn’t know if the invisible thing is really working, but considering he’s half naked running around the grounds of an airport and there aren’t security people chasing him down, he’s guessing it is.

The gate is empty though, the gangplank retracting, when he stops, panting, in front of it. He spins in a circle, sees two planes, relatively close and waiting to taxi, and lets out a shriek of frustration. A baggage handler turns around at the noise.

He doesn’t remember doing it, which, objectively is probably a bad sign. But suddenly Stiles finds his hand fisted in the collar of the baggage handler’s shirt and his mouth growling the words, “The plane that just left from this gate, which is it?”

The man points, looking more frightened than anyone had any right to look of Stiles. A very small part of his mind, not currently busy being terrified for Derek’s life, wonders what he must look like.

The plane begins to pick up speed and for a moment Stiles runs harder, legs burning, lungs aching, knowing it’s pointless but not having any other options. When the wheels leave the ground he nearly topples over, harsh breaths turning to sobs. He fits his hands to his knees, ribs protesting the violent movement of his chest. His bare feet are bloody.

And then he remembers Isaac’s plane.

He remembers how easy it was to turn it around. To land it.

He straightens. He squints.

_It’s just a plane_ , he thinks. _Just like the other one. Bigger, yes. But just a plane._

He straightens and reaches both hands, fingers curling, pulling hard at wind he knows will obey him.

The plane jars out of its steady line of ascent before the pilot wrestles back control.

He reaches harder. He grapples. He wins.

There’s a strange euphoria that begins to set in as he watches the plane arch back toward the runway, despite an ache that has started in his skull behind his eyes.

He grins somewhat wildly at his hands.

_Look what I can do_ , he thinks. And then, with a crash of realization, he straightens his fingers. The tattooed ring—Derek’s ring— on his middle finger is a serene blue. And it isn’t burning.

The plane wrenches back into its ascent but Stiles is too baffled to regain control of it.

If Derek was dying of wolfsbane poisoning the ring should be hurting like it was in the bunker. It should be brown. _It should be brown_.

His hands start to shake.

And then he’s being bowled over by a wolf.

His brain feels syrup slow, eyes strangely unfocussed when he opens them to find Walsh mostly on top of him, panting hard.

Walsh shifts to human, just for a moment, long enough to say, “He’s not on the plane, he’s in one of the hangers. They’ve called security on you and unless you feel like outing the entire fae race we need to leave _now_.”

“Derek,” Stiles says, stumbling to his feet. “Take me to Derek.”

Walsh, a wolf again, starts running.

Stiles has no choice but to follow.

***

Time is a strange thing, when people you love are in danger and you’re sixteen and you’re manifesting a frightening amount of magical abilities.

Stiles doesn’t remember how they get to the hangar, but suddenly they’re there. Walsh is pushing open a metal door and then Derek is…Derek is fine.

He’s still a wolf but he’s _fine_. Not crying or bloody or _dead_. He’s standing next to Teagan, the crate a few feet away, door ajar.

Stiles stumbles and ends upon his knees.

Derek crashes into him a moment later and they end up sprawled on the concrete floor beneath the wing of an airplane.

“Holy shit, dude.” Stiles says, wrapping his arms tight around Derek’s neck. “Holy shit.”

His head feels strange, the discomfort from earlier coalescing into a bright spot of pain between his eyes. His shaking hands have gotten worse, turned into a whole body shudder and he isn’t running anymore but he can’t seem to stop gasping.

_Oh_. He thinks. _Oh fuck._

Derek realizes something is wrong shortly after Stiles does.

He starts to whine as Stiles feels his teeth lengthen, cutting into his bottom lip.

The massive lightbulb directly above them goes out in a shower of sparks.

“Derek,” Teagan shouts, but it sounds like she’s under water.

There’s a popping sound as a second light goes out.

“Hey.”

Derek’s voice is weirdly far away, even though Stiles can feel his breath against his face.

“Hey, look at me.”

Stiles feels like he should probably respond. But can’t seem to get his mouth to cooperate.

“Stiles? Stiles, come on.”

The wind starts to pick up outside, whistling shrilly against the metal panels of the building.

“Derek,” Teagan says again. She sounds scared, Stiles thinks. And then realizes Derek is talking to him again.

“Here, do you feel my pulse? Give me your—“

He’s to get Stiles to grasp his wrists but it isn’t working. Stiles fingers are limp and cool, shaking in Derek’s hands, his breathing getting faster. The remaining lights in the hangar flicker.

“Stiles, the power is—I swear to god if you set us on fire—okay. Okay this clearly isn’t working. We’re just going to pretend this is a panic attack, okay? Breathe with me.”

Stiles shakes.

“Fuck.”

He’s never heard Derek curse before.

“Stiles please, please breathe with me, okay? Here we go.”

He tries, because Derek sounds scared, like Teagan. And he’s pretty sure it’s his fault.

“That was good,” Derek says, as the wind screams louder outside. “Again, ready?”

Stiles manages something like a hiccupping gasp and Derek’s hands, Derek’s really very nice hands, move against his back.

“Perfect. Again.”

The lights stop flickering.

“Good. You’re doing so good.”

When Stiles finally comes back to himself he’s sitting mostly in Derek’s lap, Derek’s very naked lap, breathing against his neck.

Teagan and Walsh are by the door.

“That was bad,” he says, and Derek snorts at the understatement.

“That was _really_ bad,” he amends.

This time Walsh snorts.

Stiles takes another shuddering breath, and looks at his hands, no longer shaking. He stills.

There’s a tattoo on his wrist that hadn’t been there a few minutes before: a circle containing the Gemini constellation, deep and dark and blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there!
> 
> Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. I've been spending a lot of time at the hospital, but I also went to interview at my top choice grad school, and then was subsequently accepted! I am officially a PhD student, or I will be come August. Much excitement. Such academia. Wow. (Interestingly enough, the paper I used as my writing sample was about fan fiction-a risky move, as my advisor told me, but one that ultimately payed off!)
> 
> Next update by the 25th at the latest. :)


	19. Chapter 19

All things considered, the fact that Stiles is sitting in his naked best friend’s lap really isn’t that big a deal.

It sure feels like one, though.

Because Stiles really doesn’t want to stop touching Derek. He thinks this can probably be excused for supernatural-anchor-y sort of reasons, but he’s relatively sure if he keeps touching Derek other things will happen that will not be so easily excused.

“So. You’re pretty naked,” Stiles says. Because apparently even as a presented magical being of ultimate power he has no filter.

“Entirely,” Derek agrees.

“I should probably get off you before this gets awkward, huh?”

“Take your time.”

Stiles can’t tell if he’s joking or not but figures _not touching naked Derek_ really aught to be top priority at the moment. He stands, feeling exhausted and shaky and flushed and crosses his arms, trying to pretend he’s not watching as Derek also stands. Still naked. So very naked.

He’s grown, Stiles realizes. Which he hadn’t really noticed, maybe because he saw him every day and it wasn’t drastic enough to catch his attention, but Derek—his awkward geeky Derek—is. Well. He’s sort of hot. And the lingering baby fat that had still been clinging to his stomach during the Piggly Wiggly Parking Lot Incident is decidedly nowhere to be seen. He’s all lean muscle and rumpled hair and the glasses are— _well let’s be honest,_ Stiles thinks, _the glasses have always been_ —

Stiles realizes he’s staring.

“So,” he says, far louder than necessary. “We should probably figure out where Gerard and Jackson are, huh?”

“Who?” Teagan says.

“Gerard is the guy who kidnapped us,” Stiles answers. “Jackson goes to school with us but he’s uh…a giant lizard too? And Gerard can control him.”

“A _Kanima_?” Teagan says.

Walsh makes a disgusted noise.

“The others are tracking the man who took you,” Teagan says, sounding frustrated. “We tracked you and Derek. What I want to know is _why_ he took you.”

Stiles snorts. “Beats the hell out of me.”

“I think I can help answer that.”

Everyone shifts they attention to the still open door where Lydia Martin, looking as immaculate and poised as ever, is standing, applying lip gloss.

“Lydia?” Styles says.

“Gerard likes to monologue,” she says, pocketing the lip gloss. “I’m a good listener.”

“So?”

“Stiles, was your mother’s name Claudia, by any chance?”

Stiles and Derek exchange looks. “Um. There’s a definite possibility.”

“You…don’t know your mother’s name?”

“I—look I was a fae kid adopted by a wolfpack, it’s a weird situation.”

She raises one immaculate eyebrow. “Right. Well, according to Gerard, Claudia was the love of his life.”

“What? Ew.”

“He would have been like twice her age, though.” Derek says.

Lydia shrugs. “Point is. Gerard knew her for quite a while. His family produces weapons and ammunition for the supernatural and he was her wolfsbane supplier, I think. Anyway, after being shut down pretty hard core when he tried to move their relationship from professional to romantic, he wasn’t too pleased when Claudia ended up marrying and subsequently procreating, with a werewolf.”

“Holy shit, my biological father was a wolf?”

“Actually, that makes a lot of sense,” Teagan says.

“Ahem,” Lydia says.

“Right, sorry,” Stiles gestures for her to continue.

“As a result Gerard got it into his head that fae were all vile seductresses who played with humans hearts, and werewolves were woman-stealing animals. He wanted payback.”

“Shit.”

“He killed your biological father first, shortly before you were born, but then Claudia officially allied herself with a pack for protection. Which made it incredibly difficult for him to have any kind of access to her. He bided his time, making contacts of less reputable origins, and managed to get his hands on a blood stone.”

Teagan pales. “He has a blood stone. In his possession?”

“Yes,” Lydia answers, with an undercurrent of annoyance at having to repeat herself.

“Walsh,” Teagan says.

The wolf takes off at a sprint through the open door.

“Please,” Teagan says, still pale. “Continue.”

Lydia shrugs. “He used it a year ago, to attack Stiles’ family. But his revenge scheme had evolved a bit further. He planned to kidnap Stiles and Scott, initially. Tell Stiles Scott was dying on the plane.”

“But why?” Stiles asks.

“Because. He knew you would be capable enough, at that point, to ground the plane and that under that amount of stress it would force you to present. He also knew that a stunt like that would get national news attention and you would have unintentionally outed the entire fae race.”

“And in a less than flattering way,” Teagan muses.

“Assuming security would be freaking out and attempting to apprehend you—“ Lydia continues

“And you would be equally freaked out trying to get to Derek—“ Teagan says.

“There would be chaos. Probably in which you hurt, if not killed, multiple people.”

Stiles swallows.

“Eventually,” Lydia continues, “You would have passed out from overtaxing himself and he would have been taken into custody. At which point Gerard would release Scott.”

Teagan sighs in understanding. “Who would then go feral and stop at nothing to get Stiles back.”

“Perfect revenge plot, really,” Lydia agrees. “Out the fae in the worst light possible, while also shattering the stand-up image of werewolves everywhere.”

“Well shit,” Stiles says.

“Why’d he decide to take Derek instead of Scott?” Teagan asks.

“He knew Derek was Stiles’ anchor. Also he was easier to kidnap. Gerard told the kelpies working for him that either would do.”

Derek looks somewhat insulted.

“Anyway,” Lydia says. “I’d really like my boyfriend to stop being monster now, so if you guys can help with that, I’d be super appreciative.”

Teagan looks lost for a moment. “Your boyfriend is the Kanima under Gerard’s control?”

“Yup,” she pops the ‘P’ looking bored. “I’m pretty sure they’re back at the storage building now, if you want me to take you there. Gerard told me to come let Derek out of his cage so he could be ready to play the part of rabid wolf protecting his mate. I doubt he’ll stick around long once he realizes Stiles isn’t bringing the plane down, though.”

“ _Mate_?” Stiles says, sounding shrill to his own ears.

“Sorry,” she says, twirling a curl around one finger. “Is that not the PC term?”

Stiles looks to Derek for help but he’s shifted back to a wolf and is sitting on his ridiculous stilt-leggy haunches, looking at Teagan as if he hadn’t heard a thing Lydia had said.

“Take us to him,” Teagan says.

“Cool,” Lydia says, hooking a thumb toward the golf cart parked outside. “I don’t think we’re all going to fit in that, though.”

Teagan raises an eyebrow. “Fit in what?”

“Golf cart,” Stiles supplies.

Teagan shrugs. “Derek can run. Let’s go.”

She holds one hand toward Stiles, who lets out a strangled noise at the entire situation, before moving forward to lead her to their transportation.

“Everyone okay?” Lydia asks, after the cranking the engine. She glances over her sunglasses at Derek in the rearview mirror to make sure he’s ready to follow. “Good. You two hold on to something. And Derek, try to keep up.”

***

The warehouse is in sight when Teagan suddenly makes a noise in the back of her throat, fingers digging into Stiles’ bicep.

“Walsh is hurt,” she says.

Derek flicks an ear toward her and then overtakes the golf cart and sprints for the open bay door off the side of the building.

Lydia slows to a slightly more sedate pace to park, patting at her hair before following Derek into the building. Stiles holds Teagan’s elbow, directing her toward the door.

“Stiles,” she says urgently into his ear. “I can do little to help here without Walsh. You’re going to have to do this.”

“Do _what_ ,” he says, feeling vaguely sick.

“Apprehend him. Possibly fight if the Kelpies and Jackson are here too.”

“ _How?!_ I almost blew up a building the last time I tried to use magic. And you haven’t taught me how to fight, all I know how to do is make flowers bloom and shit.”

They stumble through the open bay and into an extremely one-sided fight seconds later.

Wolf-Erica is wresting Jackson, but Scott, Boyd, Isaac, and Padraig are all in a sad non-moving pile on the floor. Walsh is laid out, but still growling, eyes on Derek, who is being circled by two kelpies. Gerard is holding something in his hand, standing in the midst of it all smiling.

“Oh.” Stiles says, “fuck.”

Derek, who had darted forward to sink his teeth into the neck of one of the Kelpies, is thrown, then kicked, and Stiles finger burns as Derek slides to the floor, limp. The massive black horse who kicked him moves toward Gerard and lifts a hoof, proffering its bloody tip like an offering.

Gerard drags one finger through the blood, touches it to the stone, and extends a hand toward Derek’s prone form.

Stiles doesn’t mean to do it.

He does, but it’s not really an intentional, thought-out act until it’s already done because Derek is in trouble and Scott is hurt and he just—he reaches out and takes Gerard’s breath.

It’s easy. Like bending over and picking up a penny. He takes the air out of Gerard’s lungs and doesn’t give it back.

The kelpie standing next to him realizes something is wrong a few moments later when Gerard drops the stone in his hands, fingers clutching at his throat. When the horse moves toward Stiles he swings his other arm around and throws a handful of wind at him like a baseball. The kelpie is picked up and pitched against the wall like it weighs nothing and sizable dent is left in the metal siding of the building.

Gerard stumbles forward onto his knees and gurgles, face red and thick veined, eyes wide and terrified and furious. He scrabbles for the stone in a last ditch effort but Stiles calls it up and into his free hand without a thought.

It rests warm in the center of his palm, beating like a heart.

“Teagan,” he says. “How do I stop the stone from working? I can feel it’s still connected to him.”

“Give it to me. What have you done to Gerard?”

He tips the stone into her cupped hands.

“I’m strangling him, at the moment.”

The words take a moment to compute and he swallows. “I don’t know if I can actually kill him, though.”

“Don’t, even if you’d like to. The police are on the way and as soon as I’ve—“

She pops the stone into her mouth like it’s a piece of candy and Stiles feels that if the situation were anything but what it is he would probably be laughing hysterically.

Teagan spits it out and the weird red glow that just screamed “evil object” is gone.

“Okay. You can let him go now.”

Stiles does.

Then, as an afterthought, pitches a bit more air toward where Jackson and Erica are still fighting to break them apart.

Lydia stomps forward and intercepts Jackson as he stands, panting, and nearly human again, looking incredibly confused.

Teagan is rubbing thoughtfully at the stone and the various unconscious wolves who had been on the floor are standing, shaking, stretching, looking just as confused as Jackson, but none too worse for wear. Scott butts his head against Stiles’ shin and Derek limps over to lick his elbow and then police sirens are getting louder in the distance.

Stiles realizes he is really incredibly tired and decides now would be an excellent time to sit down and pass the hell out.

***

Stiles wakes up warm and comfortable and surrounded by a distinctly Derek smell that leaves him briefly blissfully happy.

Then he remembers.

He attempts to sit up, flailing, but is hindered by something lying across his legs and most of his torso. Once he manages to push himself up on his elbows, he realizes that wolf-Derek is sprawled over him and the cat, who had been tucked in the vicinity of his armpit, is making grumpy noises against his ribs.

“Uh?” he says.

Derek snorts, giving him a conciliatory lick to the collarbone, and resettles his head on Stiles’ stomach.

“Dude. Mind telling me what the hell happened?”

They’re back in Derek’s room, on the bed, and full mid-morning sunlight is coming in the window.

“Derek needs to stay shifted for a while longer,” Teagan says from the doorway, one hand on Walsh’s back. “He’s still healing a few broken ribs from getting kicked.”

Stiles startles a bit, then groans as a headache begins to throb between his eyes.

“Scott?” He asks.

“Completely fine. Gerard just knocked him out. The others are all healthy and happy as well. Derek and Walsh were the only ones injured,” she pats her husband’s furry head, “and Walsh should be fine by tomorrow as well.”

“Gerard?” Stiles asks, letting himself fall back against the pillow.

“Taken into custody. He’s going to be transferred to reservation detention to be tried.”

Stiles makes a questioning noise.

“The official story is that he was using a magical artifact to get revenge on your pack. The Kelpies were happy to turn on him once they were all arrested and have given statements that they were working on his behalf when they attacked your family last year. He’ll be tried for the murder of your pack, and, since we’re leaving out the fae elements of the story, the kidnap of an underage were and his mate.”

“Mate?” Stiles says.

“Get some rest,” Teagan answers, grinning. “And be aware that any magic you do from here on out will be…bigger. So be careful.”

“Bigger?” Stiles asks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Teagan and Walsh slip back into the hall.

“And what do you mean, ‘mate’?” he yells after them. “Hey, Derek, what did she mean, mate?”

Derek huffs, standing, and head butts Stiles in the chest before engaging the kitten in a very gentle wrestling match.

Stiles reaches for the nightstand and grabs the first thing his hand lands on—a ping pong ball—and throws it at Derek. It bounces off Derek’s nose and onto the floor before skittering across the room. Both wolf and cat leap off the bed on instinct and there’s a sudden urgent scrabble of traction-less toenails on the hardwood floor as they chase after the still-rolling ball.

It’s only after Derek has pounced on it, front legs flat, hindquarters in the air, that he seems to realize what he’s done.

He looks up at Stiles with an expression of dawning horror on his furry features.

“Oh my God,” Stiles says, “you are actually the most adorable thing ever.”

The kitten slides into Derek a moment later and she whacks at his front feet, covering the ball, with her own tiny paw. He lifts one foot so she can steal it and the kitten falls over in excitement.

“Oh my god,” Stiles repeats. “I can’t even with you right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I've no idea how to write action. One more chapter left!


	20. Chapter 20

The next two weeks are weird.

Argent is moved to reservation detention, Scott is given a commendation at work, Jackson and Lydia continue to rule the school as if nothing out of the ordinary ever occured, and Derek and Stiles spend the entirety of thanksgiving break doing makeup work for all the school they missed.

Stiles is…different. He’s incredibly prone to magical mishaps in that literally anything he attempts now inevitably ends up disastrous. He’s been banned from attempting to light candles anywhere near the house or trees or people or anything, really. They’re running low on coffee mugs because every time Stiles tries to freeze water he ends up doing it so thoroughly the ceramic around it shatters. There are flowers and trees and vegetables growing happily absolutely everywhere, the weathervane has long been ripped off the roof, and they don’t actually know what happened to Isaac’s plane. The worst part though, is that Derek spends a large quantity of his time actively forcing himself not to just wrap himself around Stiles and breathe in.

Because Stiles. Smells. Amazing.

 _All the time_.

Nights are now one part torture and one part bliss.

Even though Scott has been moved off night shift and technically Stiles has no reason to continue spending the night, neither one of them seem to be capable of sleeping without the other.

They tried it, briefly. But after two days of stumbling around school tired-drunk and grumpy, Scott and Padraig agreed that for the time being perhaps the sleeping arrangements could continue.

Teagan said it was a good thing, and that in the beginning stages of Stiles’ learning to control his abilities it was really best Derek wasn’t more than a mile away from Stiles at any given time, anyway.

So Derek spends his nights with his face in Stiles’ neck, unabashedly breathing him in, and his days feeling guilty about it.

Another problem that has arisen with Stiles’ sudden manifestation of fae ability is his sensitivity to absolutely everything. Bright lights. Loud noises. The texture of clothing against his skin. More than a couple people talking in a room at the same time is enough to set him on edge and he spends a good portion of the school day focusing on Derek’s even breathing to stay sane.

Derek probably shouldn’t find that as enjoyable as he does.

Erica and Boyd returned home shortly after Gerard was taken into custody but Teagan, Walsh, and Isaac have taken up semi-permanent residence in the barn house until Stiles can be trusted to continue his training by himself. Teagan says it will take until after Christmas. Teagan’s alpha says if it lasts past Christmas Stiles will have to move to New Mexico as the Sawtooth pack needs Teagan back home.

Derek and his father had a very awkward talk the evening following that announcement in which Derek all but begged that they relocate as well if it came to that and Padraig only let him beg for a short while before agreeing that would probably be best.

Derek spent more time hugging Stiles that night than actually sleeping.

School, at least, has been going somewhat well now that there’s not a supernatural creature actively trying to kill them between classes, but Stiles’ sensitivities make the simple act of getting through the school day remarkably toilsome.

This comes to a head during a science lab in sixth period the day that Stiles turns sixteen.

They’re supposed to be studying amoebas, but two lacrosse players on opposite sides of the room have taken to throwing a lacrosse ball back and forth whenever the teacher is occupied with sighting a microscope or answering a question. This is in itself not entirely out of the ordinary except that the player near the windows is leaning back in his chair and when he reaches up to catch the most recently thrown ball his leaning stretches a bit too far and he topples over—directly into a tray of beakers.

By the time the sound of breaking glass has quieted and the girlfriend of said lacrosse player has stopped screaming and the teacher has stopped six different people from snapchatting the mess, the room is still a roar of sound and Stiles’ breathing is too fast and his fingers have gone white where they’re clutching the desk.

“Stiles?” Derek says.

“Help,” Stiles whispers, sounding relatively desperate.

“Okay, come on,” he shoves both their binders into his bag, shouldering both their backpacks, and pulling Stiles to his feet.

“Here, lean against me. Focus on me, okay?”

“ ‘kay.”

Considering the overall madness, and the fact that the back row lacrosse player is now picking glass out of his elbow, conceivably they should be able to exit the room without notice. Naturally, they aren’t that lucky. Possibly because the teacher seems to have a vendetta out for Stiles after his behavior the first day.

“Mr. Hale, Mr. Stilinski, where do you think you’re going?”

“Stiles isn’t feeling well,” Derek says still pulling Stiles toward the door. “I’m taking him to the nurse.”

“I think you boys have missed enough class,” the teacher says—and he reaches out to catch Stiles’ arm, fingers curling around his wrist, halting their movement.

Stiles, overwhelmed and panicked, makes a noise like a wounded animal and Derek…Derek is just done.

Something rises in his chest: something unnamed and violent and suddenly he is the closest he has ever come to shifting in public, forcefully removing the teacher’s hand from Stiles with his teeth bared growling:

“Don’t _touch_ him.”

There is abruptly a five foot radius of space around them.

Derek hustles Stiles out into the hall and around the corner into the bathroom where they collapse into a tangle of limbs against the nearest wall. Stiles buries his face in Derek’s neck and breathes and laces their fingers together.

Derek’s current low level of guilt reaches a crescendo.

Because he really shouldn’t be relishing the fact that Stiles is in distress but it’s hard not to when said distress results in excused middle-of-the-day cuddling.

He pulls Stiles closer to his chest and tells him he’s doing a wonderful job and to keep breathing and really, honestly, tries very hard not to enjoy the situation.

Eventually Stiles moves to the sink to splash cold water on his face and as they’re walking toward the front of the school to meet Padraig—Derek had called him to pick them up early—Stiles gets a funny look on his face.

“What?” Derek says.

“What was that, back there, did you almost shift?”

“ _No_.”

“I mean. You were all growly and possessive and shit. Very hot, I gotta say.”

“ _Stiles.”_

“Dude,” Stiles says, linking their fingers. “You totally pulled a Gollum on me. I am your precious. Admit it.”

Derek admits no such thing. But he does continue to hold Stiles’ hand until Padraig arrives to take them home.

***

“Derek, come on, you have to tell me where we’re going.”

A nap and an hour of homework later, Derek is attempting to get Stiles dressed and into the car for a birthday surprise but Stiles, naturally, is not cooperating.

“I mean. Are you sure this is a good idea? Did Teagan okay it?”

“Yes,” Derek says, aggrieved. “Teagan thinks it’s perfect. Quiet, dim, not a lot of people, easy escape route just in case.”

“I just don’t see why we can’t stay here. Make cake. You know?”

“Stiles.”

“Or we could play some Mad Libs.”

“Mad libs,” Derek says. “Seriously?””

“Yeah, I found an old book of them in the attic. Completely empty. Hours of fun.”

“They’d be pornographic if you wrote them.”

“Well, yeah.”

Derek sighs. “Can we please go? I promise you’ll like it. And if you don’t we can come right back, and play dirty mad libs, okay?”

Stiles takes off the third shirt he’s tried on and throws it back toward the general direction of his bag. “How am I supposed to know what to wear if you won’t tell me where we’re going?”

“Oh my god. Just look at what I’m wearing and wear something similar! We need to leave.”

“Fine!” Stiles says.

He finally chooses a white button up and rolls the sleeves to his elbows, running a hand through his already wild hair. “Am I good?”

Derek reaches for his hand, digging his dad’s keys out of his pocket. “You’re perfect, let’s go.”

As he suspected, the art gallery is nearly empty since it’s a Wednesday night, and, also as he expected, Stiles lets out a shriek of glee when he sees what the current visiting exhibit is: _Deadly beauty_ , a collection of photographs of venomous snakes and arachnids by famed wildlife photographer Hector Valdez.

“Oh my god,” he says, clutching Derek’s arm. “You’re right. I love it. I love _you_. Holy shit.”

Derek can feel his face flushing and detaches himself from Stiles’ grasp before he does something stupid like kiss him.

Stiles watches him step back with an unreadable expression.

“You alright, dude?”

“Fine. I just. Need to go to the bathroom. I’ll catch up with you, okay?”

“I—alright.”

Derek does not go to the bathroom, but he does retreat to the back hallway to quietly freak out.

He doesn’t actuallyget a chance to however, because almost as soon as Derek has left the gallery floor, Stiles is approached by another teenager.

Derek peers around the edge the partition next to the bathroom and scowls.

The other boy is Stiles’ height, light haired and freckled and admittedly attractive, wearing skinny jeans and an artfully distressed Captain America t-shirt which—

“Oh man,” Stiles says, “I love your shirt.”

Derek sighs.

“Thanks,” freckles says, leaning closer. “I’m Charlie.”

 _Stupid name_ , Derek thinks, _Charlie_.

“I’m Stiles,” Stiles says, and extends a hand.

At which point freckles throws him a dimpled smile and says, “I’d shake your hand but the sign over there says not to touch the works of art.”

Derek growls.

Stiles, though, Stiles _laughs._

Like it was _funny_.

“Dude,” Stiles says.

Freckles blushes and then, despite his prior statement, shakes Stiles’ hand.

“Sorry,” he says, “it was the best I could come up with.”

Stiles bites his lip and Derek knows he’s trying very hard not to make an inappropriate pun. Which is infuriating, because Stiles always takes the opportunity to make inappropriate puns.

“ ‘Hi’ would have worked just fine,” Stiles says.

And they’re still shaking hands, which seems like far past the acceptable time range for a hand shake, really.

“Would you, uh, be interested in grabbing dinner or something with me sometime?” Freckles asks. “Like maybe tomorrow?”

Derek’s fingers curl, nails just past human-sharp. Because surely Stiles won’t say yes. Not to a stranger. Not to a human. Not when he has so much to learn and still needs Derek so constantly—

“I—yeah,” Stiles says. “Do you want my number, or?”

Derek does go to the bathroom now.

Because he thinks he might be sick.

***

They fight.

The night is pretty much a wash once Derek returns from the bathroom. Freckles is gone, but Stiles is grinning and bouncing on his heels and when he finally confronts Derek on why he’s being so moody on the drive home and Derek admits he’d been eavesdropping, things go downhill rather quickly.

“You were spying on me?!” Stiles shouts, ears red.

“I’m a werewolf,” Derek yells back, “I can’t help it if I hear stupid boys with bad pickup lines hitting on my best friend.”

“Charlie is not stupid, he is _nice_ ,” Stiles snaps. “He’s nice and cute and normal.”

“But _you’re_ not normal! You can barely control yourself even when I’m around to anchor you right now. What’s going to happen if you have a panic attack in the middle of your date and you end up burning the restaurant down or something. This is—you’re being irresponsible.” Derek says.

Stiles had gone strangely pale once the phrase “not normal” had passed Derek’s mouth and he finds himself immediately regretting his word choice when Stiles’ face twists with fury at the completion of his statement.

“Oh go fuck yourself,” he says.

“That’s not anatomically possible.”

“If anyone could figure out a way it’d be you. And take me home. I’m sure as hell not spending the night with you tonight.”

So Derek takes him home.

They don’t talk to each other at school the following day. Which is strange because it’s the longest Derek has gone not touching Stiles since the day they met. He can see Stiles struggling in class but he’s too prideful to ask for help and instead of offering it, Derek does the shitty thing, which is nothing. Because at some point Stiles will realize that he needs Derek, not Charlie, and he’ll come to him and Derek will be vindicated. Or something.

When Padraig picks him and he climbs into the cab of the truck alone Padraig gives Derek a sideways glance.

“No Stiles today?”

“No,” Derek says.

“You two have a fight?”

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“Didn’t say it was.”

Padraig wisely decides not to push the matter and Derek barricades himself in his room for the rest of the night playing music louder than is actually comfortable for his sensitive hearing and generally being the platonic ideal of “angsty teenager.”

Stiles shows up at 8pm.

Derek can hear his heartbeat before Scott’s car is even parked in the driveway and he jumps off his bed and is halfway down the stairs before he remembers he’s mad at Stiles. He goes back to his room and turns the music up louder.

“Derek,” Padraig says, exasperated, as he answers the door. “Consider for a moment the concept of ‘maturity,’ if you would.”

Derek turns the music down by a few degrees but doesn’t go downstairs.

He hears Stiles, breathing concerning fast, exchange a few pleasantries with his dad and then, after the quick sound of converse on wood, Stiles is in his doorway.

“Hey,” he says.

He’s flushed a pretty pink, wearing another button-down shirt—rolled at the elbows, and his belt matches his wingtip shoes and the fact that he looks this good and it isn’t for Derek’s benefit, makes Derek want to growl.

So he does.

Just a little.

“I thought you had a date,” he says, because no, Padraig, he would not like to consider the concept of ‘maturity.’

“I did,” Stiles says. “At Arbys. But see…”

His fingers twist together before shoving at the sleeves of his shirt, and then crossing his arms so his anxious hands are pinned in place. “I almost had a panic attack in the bathroom—not because it was overwhelming or anything, which, it kind of was, actually, but that’s not—“

He takes a breath.

“I realized,” he says slowly, breathing again. “That I would rather be hanging out with you watching reruns of star trek than with the guy who I thought might be the guy of my dreams. But wasn’t. Isn’t. Obviously. Because I’m pretty sure the guy of my dreams is actually you. _You_ , which is just—“ He rocks back on his heels, freeing his hands to gesture wordlessly for a moment. “A _panic attack_ , Derek. In the bathroom of the _Arbys_.”

Derek isn’t sure how to respond to that.

“I—are you ok?”

 _“No_. And oh my god. Would you stop with your face and those glasses and your _face_.”

“I don’t—“

“No. It’s cool. It’s fine. I don’t expect you to like—feel the same way or anything. I know I made you uncomfortable when I said I loved you at the art gallery yesterday. So, no big deal. I just thought you should know. And now you do! So. I’m going to leave.”

And he does.

Objectively Derek knows that he should be chasing him. That he should be walking and talking and doing things in response to this news, but his brain is just—it hasn’t quite sunk in that Stiles likes him. Like. _Likes him_ , likes him. Which is. Which pretty spectacular but also terrible because Stiles has just _left_ and Derek is still just _sitting there._

He’s managed to coordinate his feet into standing up when Stiles reappears, breathless.

“You know what,” Stiles says, “No.This is not ok. Do you even _watch_ movies? I just made this huge declaration of my probably undying love for you and you just—stood there. That’s not how this is supposed to work.”

“No.” Derek manages, which, really isn’t that helpful.

“No?” Stiles repeats, exasperated.

“I—me too.” Derek says. And God, he is just completely useless, isn’t he.

“What?”

“The uh—the love thing. I. Me too. I return the uh—“

“Oh my god. I kind of want to punch you in the mouth right now. Softly, though. With my mouth. Because I like you.”

“That—I would be okay. With that.

“Oh. Okay. So. Should I like, do that. Or—“

Derek kisses him.

First the corner of his still-open mouth, then flush to his parted lips and then, gently, very gently, Derek bites Stiles’ bottom lip, just to make sure his intent is clear, before taking a step back.

“You kissed me.” Stiles says.

“Yes.”

“I mean. You just. Kissed me.”

“Yes.

“Was that to get me to shut up, or—“

“No.”

“Goddamn it, Derek now is not the time to go pre-verbal. You just _kissed_ me. Why did you just—“

“Because I wanted to. Have, um, wanted to.”

“I—oh. Okay.” Stiles tucks his fingers into Derek’s belt loops. “Do it again?”

“Okay.” Derek says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's finished! Sort of. I'll be uploading an epilogue next week that will tie up a few loose ends and be generally disgustingly fluffy. And, once I'm finished with Phaedrus (the second in my Bondlock series), I'll be turning this into a series as well! I've already got a short about Teagan and Walsh outlined and an idea for a genuine sequel, set four years in the future, that I'm starting to flesh out. So you have definitely not seen the last of this world. Thanks for sticking with me as I figure out how to write, it's been fun. :) If you don't have an A03 account and want to keep up with when I start posting things you can find me on tumblr as xiaq as well. See you around!


	21. Epilogue

Stiles wakes up with kiss-chapped lips and a bite mark on his hipbone.

“I had the best dream,” Stiles says, and Derek grumbles something against the back of his neck.

“Hey,” Stiles rolls, a blanket of reaching arms and bony knees.

He tucks himself tightly into the valley of Derek’s chest, slinging one leg over his hip.

“I had the best dream,” he repeats.

“Hmm?” Derek says. He kisses a mouth-shaped bruise on Stiles’ collarbone with a pleased noise.

“It was a nice dream,” Stiles says. “You were naked.”

“Still not having sex with you in a house full of werewolves.” Derek mumbles, voice sleep-rough.

“We practically did last night.”

“Coming in your pants doesn’t count as sex.”

Stiles makes a wounded noise. “You’re hot. I’m sixteen. Sue me.”

Derek gently sets his teeth into the meat of Stiles’ shoulder because he’s still not quite awake enough to have impulse control. There’s already a mark there. He considers making another one.

“Mmm,” Stiles says. “You’re kinda bite-y, you know that?”

Derek immediately withdraws.

“No, no, I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s—I like it. That you’re kinda possessive.”

The teeth return, this time accompanied by tongue and Stiles makes a noise that is in no way decent.

“Boys!” Padraig yells from downstairs, and they grudgingly shuffle apart.

“Werewolves,” Stiles mutters.

When they get downstairs, Walsh is cooking breakfast for Teagan, and Padraig is having a serious conversation with the kitten about how a litter box works and how she will be eaten if she doesn’t figure it out soon.

Scott and Issac come crashing through the back door, panting, as Derek and Stiles are pouring cereal.

“There’s redcaps in the preserve,” Isaac says and Teagan drops her fork.

“Seriously?” Padraig says, leaving off his reprimanding. The kitten squirms out of his hands and makes a break for Derek’s lap. She knows she’ll be safe there.

“What’s a Redcap?” Stiles asks.

“That’s what I said,” Scott groans, leaning forward to rest his hands on his knees. Both Scott and Issac’s jeans are torn and there are little bloody scratches on the bit of Issac’s calf that Stiles can see.

“They’re bite-y, whatever they are,” Scott says.

Stiles snorts into his cereal bowl, grinning sideways at Derek.

Derek glares.

“Little goblin things,” Teagan says, “not entirely vampiric, but they have a penchant for blood and raw meat.”

“Human meat?” Stiles asks, then reconsiders. “Or, you know, human-ish?”

“They don’t discriminate,” Teagan says. “And they live in large family groups.”

“There’s at least a dozen of them,” Isaac says, looking woefully at his torn up purple converse. “And their teeth are _very_ sharp.”

“We’ll have to round them up,” Padraig says. “I won’t have them in my territory. They’ll likely kill some unsuspecting hiker, and even if they don’t the wildlife population is going to be affected.”

“What do we do?” Derek asks.

“Trap and relocate. I’ll contact the nearest fae reservation and see what they recommend.”

“Fantastic,” Stiles says. “First Kelpies, now redcaps. Why can’t we have an infestation of nice mythical creatures? Why can’t we run into unicorns in the woods or find brownies have decided to come clean our kitchen at night?

“Unicorns don’t exist,” Derek points out, “And I’m pretty sure brownies went extinct a hundred years ago.”

“Thanks, asshole.”

Isaac’s phone, which had been left on the counter, buzzes with a text message.

“Oh, Brian has been texting you all morning,” Walsh says, tossing the phone to it’s owner.

Judging by Isaac’s facial expression, they are not a fan of “Brian.”

“Ex boyfriend?” Scott asks, eyebrows raised.

“Not even,” Isaac says, moving to pour himself some orange juice. “He was interested, I turned him down.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

Scott is using his ‘I am being extremely casual’ voice. Stiles narrows his eyes.

Isaac shrugs. “Because, he was so far in the closet he was practically in Narnia. And he wasn’t all that interested in coming out anytime soon. Which, I can understand, but that doesn’t work for me, you know? Also, he was human and the whole creature of the night thing would be hard to explain.”

“Right.”

“What about you?”

Scott looks blank. “What do you mean, what about me?”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Oh. I—no?”

“Interesting.”

Padraig snorts as Scott’s ears go pink.

Isaac finishes the juice and wipes the back of his wrist across his mouth.

“I’m going back to the barn to shower and change, save some eggs for me, okay?”

Scot says nothing.

Padraig laughs outright. “I’ll save some for you.”

“Thanks.”

Isaac lopes off gracefully and Scott lingers in the entryway looking somewhat baffled.

“Isaac is being weird.” He says.

“I think the puppy has a crush,” Stiles says conversationally. “Also I think he wants to _bone_ you.”

Derek groans. “Enough with the dog jokes. And the sexual innuendo. Especially at the same time.”

“Scott,” Padraig says kindly, “you’re bleeding on my floor. Would you mind going to wash up?”

***

Stiles takes a quick trip to the barn before they leave for school.

Luckily Isaac is already out of the shower or the conversation would be even more awkward that it is.

“Hi,” Stiles says to a very confused Isaac who opens the door. “It seems you’re into my brother and I just wanted to talk to you about that real quick.”

“I—what?”

“I mean. Even if the whole fighting-as-sexual-tension thing wasn’t obvious—which, it is, by the way—the very subtle girlfriend/boyfriend line of questioning was a bit of a giveaway.”

Isaac grins sheepishly.

Stiles sighs. “Look. You seem like a nice guy, under all the scarfs and the cheekbones and whatever. But if you hurt my brother I will burn you. And I don’t mean that metaphorically. I will literally set you on fire. I know how, now.”

“I—okay?”

“Right. Well. Good talk.”

Stiles figures he’s done his brotherly duty and goes to meet Derek and Padraig at the car.

The ride to school is…awkward.

Usually they’re all shoulder to shoulder in the cab, jostling each other as they hit potholes and turn corners, but today there’s a solid inch of space between Padraig’s shoulder and Stiles and he keeps looking sideways at them as if he’s afraid they might begin making out at any moment.

When they get to the school, Derek slides out first and Stiles hands him his messenger bag before following.

Padraig makes a choked noise when Stiles leans over to get his own backpack out of the floorboard.

“ _Derek Michael Hale_ ,” Padraig says in voice that Stiles has never heard him use before.

Derek’s shoulders hunch and even though Stiles has no idea what’s happening he suddenly feels intensely guilty.

“What?” He says, jumping out of the truck.

Padraig is looking at Derek with an expression that is difficult to interpret but it seems to be mostly made up of disbelief.

“You _marked_ him?” he says.

And Stiles…Stiles still has no idea what’s going on.

“I didn’t mean to, it just sort of happened!”

“ _Derek_. You are _sixteen._ ”

“Uh, guys?” Stiles says.

“Does he even _know_?” Padraig asks, sounding somewhat horrified.

“Know _what_?!”

Padraig puts the truck in park and slides across the bench seat.

“Lean forward, please, Stiles,” he says.

And then Padraig is pulling aside the collar of his shirt to expose what Stiles’ imagines is a bruising bite mark on back of his neck.

“This,” Padgraig says.

“Uh,” Stiles says, still awkwardly bent forward. “So he’s kinda bite-y? Not a big deal. I mean, kinda TMI I guess, but it’s not like I didn’t enjoy it.”

Padraig lets go of Stiles shirt with a pained noise.

He glares at his son.

Derek whines.

Like, honest to goodness _whines._

“Okay somebody needs to tell me what’s going on because bloodstones and kelpies and kanimas and now _redcaps_ are enough surprises to deal with, alright? You’re starting to freak me out.”

Padraig pinches the bridge of his nose. “My _son_ ,” he says, “has claimed you. Apparently without your consent.”

“What? No. That’s—don’t you have to like, break the skin for that? Mate bites are bloody. They scar. This is just—“ he gestures vaguely toward his neck. “This is nothing.”

Padraig pinches his nose harder.

“That’s true. But this is the preliminary step to that. I knew I should have said something sooner. But it didn’t seem like he was intentionally scent-marking you and—oh god. Scott is going to kill me.”

“I don’t—“ Stiles glances from Padraig to Derek. “Are you serious? You werewolf married me?!”

“I’m sorry!” Derek says, the whine still present in his voice. “It was an accident!”

“No. No, Derek. Giving someone a hickey is an accident. Making a _universal claim of supernatural ownership_ is not an accident.”

“It’s not—I mean it’s more like engagement than marriage—I would have to—“

“Derek. Oh my god. I’m really not interested in semantics right now.”

“Look, I’m sorry, I know you’re mad and we haven’t had a chance to talk about this, but—“

“I’m not mad, dude, I just would have appreciated you asking first.“

Derek takes a moment. “You’re…not mad?”

“I don’t—I mean, it’s pretty awesome, actually, but—“

“Awesome?”

“Yeah?”

Derek looks so completely baffled by this that it physically hurts Stiles’ chest.

“Derek. I thought we’d established that I’m kinda stupid over you. I mean. Shit. If I had a nickel for every time I thought about you people would be like, what is that kid doing with all those nickels? That is way too many nickels.”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, uncertain where he was going with that.

“But see they would be _wrong_.”

Derek’s face goes strangely vacant for a moment and then it’s doing this weird thing where he can’t seem to decide what expression he’s going to make and then Stiles isn’t paying attention to what his face is doing anymore because Derek is kissing him with the most aggressive gentleness he has ever encountered.

Padraig groans and shuts the car door.

He puts the truck back into gear.

He looks as if he’s considering separating them and then gives up and drives away.

Derek and Stiles don’t notice.

***

Scott is not pleased.

“You _marked_ him?!”

“I’m sorry!” Derek says for seventeenth time. “I honestly wasn’t thinking, I was just—I was so happy but he still smelled like _Charlie_ and—“

“And I love him!” Stiles interjects. Because honestly enough people have yelled at Derek today.

Scott’s face morphs into astonished…something. Excitement, maybe.

“You do?”

“You do?” Derek says.

“Uh. Yeah? I thought we had established that.”

“You said _maybe_ ,” Derek murmurs, looking incredibly pleased and slightly besotted.

Stiles tries not to focus on how sexy he is in sweats and glasses because things are awkward enough already and he’s in a room full of werewolves.

“Well. I do.”

“You’re not lying,” Scott says. “I—Stiles, really?”

“Really.”

Scott looks like he might cry.

“I knew—I mean, we know the way Derek is with you but I wasn’t sure if you—“

“Of course he loves Derek,” Teagan mutters. “I thought they were already mates the minute I got here. And I can’t even _see_.”

“My baby brother is in love,” Scott says. “Oh my god.”

He hugs Stiles for a solid minute, then rounds on Derek with a growl.

“He is _sixteen._ Your teeth don’t go anywhere near his neck again until he’s eighteen. At least. Understood?”

Derek nods. “Of course.”

“And only then with his fully informed consent.”

More nodding.

“And if you hurt him I will disembowel you.”

“If I hurt him I’ll let you,” Derek says somberly.

“Oh my god,” Stiles says. “You’re all ridiculous.”

He grabs Derek’s hand and starts pulling him toward the stairs. “My boyfriend and I have homework to do. We can talk about this later.”

“Boyfriend?” Derek says, sounding relatively strangled.

“Despite your teeth’s opinion I think ‘fiancé’ is a little premature, don’t you?”

“That’s—I—boyfriend. I like boyfriend.”

“Fantastic.”

They don’t actually get much studying done. Derek tries, but Stiles keeps getting distracted by Derek’s face, which, in his defense, is pretty fantastic and very distracting.

He goes to take a shower so Derek can actually get some work done and when he returns, damp and wearing boxers, Derek is sitting at his desk, frowning at the computer screen.

“Whatcha doin?”

“Studying for our history exam on Monday. I got out some clothes for you.”

Stiles glances toward the bed.

“Those are your clothes.”

“Mmm.”

“Derek.”

“Hmm?”

“I have clothes here that are mine and like, actually fit, you know that right?”

He moves toward his bag in the corner and Derek sighs.

“With the redcaps around I’d feel more comfortable if you smell like me. They may be less inclined to eat you if they know you’re protected by a wolf.”

“I think you mean mated to a wolf, don’t you?” Stiles says, moving retrieve Derek’s shirt from the bed.

“Stiles.”

“Yeah, okay, I’ll wear your clothes. Not like it’s a hardship or anything.”

He pulls the shirt over his head and does a little shimmy that Derek is certain is unnecessary.

“You know,” Stiles says. “There’s other ways to make sure I smell like you.”

Derek makes a noise that is definitely not a whimper.

And Stiles, Stiles nudges Derek’s hands off the keyboard so that he can slide between the desk and Derek’s knees and a few seconds later Derek finds himself with a lap full of teenage mage. Derek valiantly attempts to keep reading his notes over Stiles’ shoulder.

“You alright there, White Fang?” Stiles murmurs.

He rubs his face against one side of Derek’s neck and the rough patch of stubble that has started appearing on Derek’s jaw line toward the end of the day catches in Stiles’ hair. Stiles switches to the other side, squirming to get more comfortable and Derek makes a low aggrieved noise.

“Is it working?” Stiles asks.

“If the goal is to ensure I get an inappropriate boner during the revolutionary war portion of the exam, yes.”

“Oh my god. You just said boner. My day has been made.”

He makes a second noise.

“What I meant,” Stiles says, “Is do I smell more like you now?”

“Yes.”

“So I should stop?”

“…no.”

***

In the morning, Derek is sitting at the table, drinking a cup of orange juice, when Stiles stumbles down the stairs and into the kitchen. The cat is tucked beneath one of his arms, and he’s wearingDerek’s shirt. The shirt falls to mid-thigh and Derek follows the line of Stiles’ legs beneath his boxers, watching the play of muscle as he rolls onto his toes, reaching for a coffee cup, depositing the cat on a stool.

Stiles pours his coffee and stands by the sink, head leant back, eyes closed against the sun that tips full through the window. It paints his skin golden, turning his eyelashes near translucent where they rest on his cheeks.

Derek resists the urge to stand and run a hand through the riot of feathered bedhead, to press his thumb to ridge of Stile’s collarbone and his lips to his pulse. Stiles, quiet and sleepy like this, looks a painful combination of vulnerable and unreal; an aerial creature with indentations of pillow creases on his cheek.

Padraig clinks his mug against Derek’s, and he regretfully turns his attention to his father.

Padraig quirks an eyebrow, glancing at Stiles, then takes a sip to hide a smile.

“Shut up,” Derek says.

Padraig’s smirk grows as he resettles the cup between his hands.

“Morning, Stiles,” he says, still looking at Derek. “You’re up early today.”

Stiles opens his eyes, sparing a look at the clock. “Ugh. Too early for a Saturday. I’m going back to sleep.”

Derek grins, knowing his expression is far too fond as he watches Stiles move, still sleep muddled, back toward the stairs with his coffee.

Neither of them said anything as the stairs creak with quiet footfalls and then fall silent.

The cat jumps off the stool, loudly declaring it’s annoyance at being abandoned, and follows a few seconds later.

“So.” Padraig says, eyebrow still hitched.

Derek slumps forward with a sigh, chin resting on the rim of his mug.

“I love him a kind of stupid amount,” he admits.

“No shit, kiddo.” Padraig answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, it's done! I'm not completely happy with this chapter, but it's as good as it's going to get at the moment.  
> This is going to be a series! Once I'm done with Phaedrus I'll be uploading a short or two and, eventually, a full-length sequel.
> 
> This was supposed to just be a silly little request-fic to give myself a break after Jealous Gods, but I've really enjoyed the world and the characters and I hope I didn't butcher either too badly.
> 
> My bff had his bone marrow transplant today so the next few weeks will be no fun and I'm unlikely to get much writing done, but I will be back! Thanks for being patient and thanks so much for those of you who commented! I love getting those email notifications. :)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is birthday gift for a friend who requested known werewolves, awkward teenagers, Mage! stiles, and Scott/Stiles as brothers. I have 13 chapters written, plan for it to be 20 when completed, and I will try to get a chapter edited and posted once a week. No definite schedule yet due to a new job, but I'm thinking Thursdays.  
> Apologies in advance for mistakes! And you can find me on tumblr at: http://xiaq.tumblr.com/


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